


bye bye miss american pie

by penguin10598



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Bad Parenting, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, also some college stuff, over use of the fucking f-word, so much fucking angst, the bucky/tony stuff is unrequited, tons of fucking snapchat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-08-08 00:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7735087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguin10598/pseuds/penguin10598
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things Bucky Barnes hates in no particular order:<br/>Tony fucking Stark<br/>Art class<br/>Steve Rogers Table Hijacker <br/>His parents </p>
<p>aka a high school au</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Introduction and Tony fucking Stark

**Author's Note:**

> lets just say I'm fucking trying - the name is subject to change too like wtf  
> unbetad mistakes are mine

The day was December 16 of last year, the day that changed everything, the day that had them singing _Bye, bye Miss American Pie,_ because December 16 of last year was the day that God fucking died. For Bucky it was at least, because that was the day his parents decided to completely uproot his life, and move to the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. Of course his parents would never understand his anguish. Sometimes it’s hard to believe they were ever actually teenagers themselves. He swears his parents are the fucking bees of the human race, born fully grown.

                The most consoling he gets from his parents is a slap on the back and a roll of the eyes because, “C’mon James buck up, this move will be good for you. Maybe you can actually make friends at your new school. God knows you haven’t fared too well here.”

                Which is not true, Bucky has friends. Bucky just refuses to introduce his friends to his parents, because he knows what they will say. His friends are not exactly the country club going type of people, and that is just absolutely unacceptable to his parents who are more like wax figures than actual human beings.

                His wax figure parents have read enough parenting books on how to contain your troubled child to know better than to tell him to make friends, or so he would have thought. He was pretty certain, however not entirely sure that at least one of those parenting self-help books would have mention that, “Your troubled teen will rebel your every demand.” Apparently his parents just loved proving him wrong, even when they weren’t actively seeking out to do so, because that’s why he made the decision to never make another friend for the rest of his life. While, he knows the _rest_ of his life is perhaps a little excessive he just means until he doesn’t need to lean on his parents for financial support. He’s hoping for that to be sooner rather than later, but he’s being realistic about it.

                Sure, Bucky knows that making friends will get his parents off his back, and maybe even earn some respect from them, but Bucky tried that already. He tried being the perfect son that they were looking for, the one with the perfect grades, the nicest clothes, the prettiest _girlfriend_ , and the most friends before he decided he didn’t want anything to do with that. He was fifteen when he told his mom to stop being “So, God damn full of yourself.”

                She slapped him on the face, a sharp sting and reprimanded him in her most condescendingly stern tone, “James, if you have nothing nice to say don’t say anything at all.”

Bucky was fifteen when he decided not to talk to his parents for over half a year. After about seven months of silence they finally threatened him with military school, and he knew a buzz cut would never look good on him. So, he let his parents think they could have the upper hand, and he began to talk to them. If it even counted as talking, it was usually more like prehistoric grunts.

                When his mother would complain at the dinner table with her lips held in a tight fake smile, “James, is there something wrong with you, or are we just not important enough to know about your day?”

                He would have to bite his tongue so hard to keep from screaming, “Both! It’s both Bing-fucking-o!” He had years of practice in keeping his composure in moments exactly like this, however, and could maneuver through it like a trained assassin. With a shrug he would apathetically reply, “Nuthin’ important happened today.”

                Bucky was fifteen when he refused to cut his hair and let it grow to his shoulders, keeping it greasy until his mom had to force his head under the faucet. That was also the age he decided he no longer wanted to look like a walking Ralph Lauren ad, and he replaced all his button ups, polos, boat shoes and khakis with band t-shirts, leather jackets, clunky boots, and tight ripped skinny jeans.

                He relished in the way his parents shook their heads, and screamed at him to change. He had to hide the pleased smirk that was itching at his lips every time his mother would scoff, and moan, “James, honey why can’t you just go back to being normal?”

                _Normal._ The word tasted like venom on his tongue. If what his parents wanted of him was _normal_ , he would never want anything to do with that word, or them ever again. Yeah, a lot changed for Bucky when he turned 15.

                Bucky was 17 now, as of today actually, and December 16 was three months ago. His mother was standing in the doorway of his room, her arms crossed over her chest, and she looked rather displeased. From his spot on his bed, in his absolute mess of a room, Bucky groaned inwardly, he didn’t deserve this, whatever it was, and on his birthday of all days.

                “James,” His mother bit out.

                Bucky looked up at her from the book he was reading, just with his eyes, he honestly couldn’t find it in him to lift his head up. He spit out a rather acidic, “What?”

                His mother just sighed and rested her forehead on the palm of her hand, “Honey, today is your birthday, and your father and I planned a party. You know this, right?”

                Bucky knows what’s coming, and he wants to ignore it, but alas it is the inevitable. He flips the page he’s just finished reading, no longer looking at her and gives his mom a curt nod.

                “Right, so I am assuming you remember that you were supposed to invite your friends. The ones you were so quick to tell me you had. You remember that?” Bucky is ignoring her, opting to read his book rather than answer her questions, because here is the thing, his parents don’t exactly know about his vow to never make a friend again. He heard his mother let out a long sigh, “James put the book down I am talking to you.”

                He rolled his eyes, before setting the book in his lap and looking up at her. Her face changed from displeased annoyance to concerned pity. Bucky hated that part, the pity, he didn’t need any pity he chose this, this is what he wanted. “James, honey, we’re concerned about you.”

                Bucky just scoffed. He’s heard this spiel so many times before. The “James, honey why don’t you ever come out of your room?” and the “Why don’t you tell us anything?” and the “Why can’t you just listen to us?” and let’s not forget the “Why, can’t you just be more like us?” His parents have threatened him with therapy more than enough times saying they’re scared he’s depressed and going to hurt himself, but he knows they would never go through with it, because just imagine the kind of damage that could do to their image. Having a psycho kid? That never made for good small talk at luncheons, or the golf course.

                “You know honey,” His mother begins, and she’s moving towards him and _Oh God_ she’s sitting next to him on the bed, she’s going to try and comfort him. This is only getting worse by the second. There is something so unnerving when his mother attempts to be nurturing. It makes his skin crawl. It’s like if an alien came down to earth and tried to be human. She moves his hair out of his face so she can get a better look into his eyes. “There’s this really nice church group you should meet with, I think you’ll make a lot of friends that way.”

                Bucky literally feels his heart stop, he’s pretty sure that put him into cardiac arrest. A church group? Hell fucking no. There is no way in hell he is ever even stepping 15 yards near a church group. His mom was looking at him with pleading eyes, and all of his pride was going to have to be thrown out of the window because now he had to beg. He had to, it was the only way to protect his sanity, “Ma no please. I’ll make friends I promise. Just, please don’t make me go to church group.”

                His mother kissed him on the forehead, and smiled, “All right I won’t, but remember James you promised.”

                He was completely and utterly betrayed by his own mother, the same woman who carried him for nine months and brought him into this earth. This woman, evil and conniving, and just played him. She had played him. She pitted his absolute distaste for church group against him, and used this to get her way. She was wicked. She sashayed away with a look of victory in her eyes. He hated the way his gut twisted with betrayal because he should really be used to it by now, though.

                His mother looked over her shoulder, and narrowed her eyes at him in a piercing glare, “And clean your room James. Honestly, I do not know how anyone can live in a mess like that.”

                So, since his mother has seemingly blackmailed him into making friends that is what he did. Except, he knew what his parents wanted. They wanted nice clean cut high school kids, rich boys who played lacrosse, (how pretentious) and were planning to go to elite colleges, and peppy girls with high ponytails who were on honor roll. That’s why he went and found the complete opposite.

                Bucky was smart, and his parents knew it, no matter how many times he flunked his tests on purpose. When they moved, it was to a small town near a larger college town, and they signed him up for classes. The classes were for advanced high schoolers and normal college students. Bucky went to them begrudgingly, but never complained too much because he’d much rather take his math classes at the college than at the high school, surrounded by mouth breathing idiots.

 It was at these classes where Bucky met his new friends.  Tony Stark was the first of his new friends. Bucky sat in front of him, and the guy never shut up. Never. He was always talking, if not to the teacher, than to Bucky, or the poor chump he had the unfortunate displeasure of sitting beside him or to himself like some kind of lunatic. And he copied off of Bucky’s papers all the fucking time, even though Bucky knew this guy was some kind of genius and could do the math in his sleep. And Bucky absolutely loathed the guy.

Their friendship began as follows:

“Hey,” Tony whispered, even though it was more of a shout. It was obvious by his tone though that he was at least attempting some form of a whisper. Bucky knew the “Hey” was directed towards him, but he was not in the mood and had no plans to acknowledge Stark not even with a glance and a one sided conversation.       

“Holden Caulfield, I’m talkin’ to you,” Tony hissed, and Bucky felt something hard hit him in the back of the head. He broke his resolve and turned around to glare at Stark. Obviously, Tony was not expecting Bucky to turn around, and it’s almost sad for a moment the fact that Tony had more faith in Bucky’s stubbornness than Bucky even had, because a marble is coming at him and hits him right on the forehead. And just a marble? Really?

“What the fuck are you doing Stark?” Bucky snaps. He’s eyeing the bag of marbles Stark has in front of him, and notes that the other man is lacking any supplies, he didn’t even bother bringing his textbook. _Classic fucking Stark_ Bucky thinks bitterly.

Tony Stark was an infamous figure on the college’s campus. He was known for throwing the most lavish parties in his high-tech pimped out penthouse that included expensive alcohol, designer drugs, and exotic strippers. He had come to class drunk on more than one occasion, which was completely ridiculous considering the class he shared with Bucky was at four fucking thirty, and still managed to correct and berate the professors in his inebriated state. Even though was the poster boy for bad decisions, and an absolute train wreck he still somehow managed to always look good while doing it, and Bucky _hated_ him.

“So,” Stark begins dragging out the word for an excruciatingly long time. “I traded my bag for these marbles you see. It was a really fucking nice bag too, leather and shit. Real expensive. Good thing I didn’t have my books in it, like I ever do, but that’s beside the point. Anyways, I was wondering if you would be such a dear and assist me in my time of need.”

Bucky blinked up at him, because _honestly what the hell was he talking about?_ Who trades a bag, for fucking marbles? Unless… “You gonna share?”

“God damn it Caulfield-“

“It’s Bucky,” Bucky corrects, a scowl on his face.

“Whatever,” Stark brushes him off. “You’re a lot smarter than I thought.”

“You obviously don’t think I’m too dumb, because if you did you wouldn’t be copying my god damn answers all the fucking time,” Bucky grumbles. He really fucking hates Tony Stark.

“Meet me in the quad after class,” Tony smirks. “Because you definitely need it.”

That’s how Bucky traded a pencil, some paper, and shared a calculator for weed. That’s also how Bucky ended up in Tony Stark’s massive pent house, a glass bong in his hand and Tony laughing his ass off by how scared shitless he looked.

“C’mon Caulfield it’s not like it’s going to bite you,” Tony snorts.

That’s not what Bucky is so scared about though, he Googled how to smoke a bong and found a WikiHow (with pictures) he knows what do, he’s scared of his parents. He’s scared they’re going to find out, and punish him. He’s scared they’re going to send him off to military school, or move to a new town because he hasn’t “fared well here.” Mostly, he’s scared he’s going to let them down, even though he’s practically been doing that since he was born. But yeah he’s a wuss who’s scared to disappoint his fucking parents.

“You wanna piss your parents off right?” Tony presses with a tilt of the head and a cock of the eyebrow. Tony must be able to smell the teen angst radiating off of Bucky, if he can have that good of a read on him already.

Bucky put his lips over the opening, and put his finger on the carb, then he lit up and sucked it in. He held the smoke in his lungs for about ten seconds before blowing it out. He was impressed he didn’t cough, because honestly that was just too cliché for him. Hacking up your lungs after smoking for the first time and someone clapping you on the back laughing because your weed virginity was just taken, and you’re such a fucking noob was not his style at all.

“Right on Caulfield!” Tony whoops, and snatches the bong away from him. After Tony takes a rather long hit he hands the bong back to him and absorbs into a story. “I remember going off the rails when I was your age. Hated my parents, still hate my parents. My dad, he doesn’t give a shit about me, never did. All he cares about is his work, and I interfered with that. My mom just went along with whatever my dearest daddy said. So, I’ve been throwing the world’s longest tantrum since I was about thirteen. Girls, booze, drugs and of course spending all of daddy’s money on whatever the fuck I felt like. Trust me kid none of it can replace what you’re missing, they die and you’re already too fucked up to change. I’ve got a few years on you don’t I Caulfield? So, don’t think you’re beating me out on the pages of the Guinness Book of World Records, cause that’s gonna be me on there ‘Tony Fucking Stark’ World’s Longest Tantrum.”

Bucky hears his words, but it’s all in one ear and out the other. It’s just really fucking weird he had no other way to put it. He’s sitting on a white leather couch, fucking white leather, who in their right mind would get white leather? Especially for a couch, it was just so impractical. Yet, here he was sitting on a spotless white leather couch, in a glass penthouse getting life advice from a deceased billionaire’s troubled genius son, and smoking a bong. He finds this to be fucking hilarious, and begins to laugh uncontrollably.

“The fuck are you telling me this for?” He asks between breaths of laughter.

Tony’s laughing now too, not nearly as hard as Bucky, but he’s smiling a little dumb-like and snatching the bong from Bucky. He takes a hit and laughs again, “I don’t fucking know why Caulfield. Guess you remind me of well me.”

“It’s Bucky,” He attempts to growl, though it comes out as more of purr. He feels really good right now, even with the weird tension Stark built up trying to divert him from a troubled path or some shit, everything feels light and happy. He can’t stop fucking giggling like a little girl. And fuck he is hungry. “Hungry.”

“O-kay Bucky. There’s this really great taco place downtown if you’re up for it,” Stark says already pulling on his jacket. “Unless you need to get home to mommy and daddy of course.”

Bucky huffs out through his nose, “Fuck them.”

With that he’s tugging his own leather jacket on, and following Tony out the door.

Bucky is sitting inside of Tony Stark’s Audi, and this is more familiar to him. The lavishly modern penthouses, with racks of expensive whiskey, and sleek chrome furniture are not, those are too new money for him, but the luxury vehicles are always something his family has made a purpose of owning ever since he was little. It’s actually become the hot topic in his house hold. His parents are practically begging him to let them buy him a car, and have been since he was fifteen and they forced him to get his learner’s permit. Now he’s 17 and still doesn’t have his license. He’s only holding out on getting it now, just to piss his parents off. Maybe, if they got him something reasonable like a Malibu, or hell even a Prius he’d reconsider. Nope, it has to be some 40 fucking thousand dollar car, and that just isn’t his style. He doesn’t want a car that he’s driving just for a statement. Just to say, “Hey! Look at all the fucking money I own.”

“You won’t mind if I play music will you?” Stark asks him, even though he’s already plugging his phone into the aux chord. Bucky’s surprised Tony even asked him at all, even if he didn’t expect a reply. Tony just didn’t seem like the kind of guy to ask. He seemed more like the kind of guy who did, and whenever he wanted to at that. “Hope you don’t mind alternative jazz.”

Tony lets out a snort of laughter at Bucky’s face, it can only be described as a look of utter confusion. Bucky doesn’t join in on Tony’s laughter he just slumps further into the seat ignoring the way the seat belt dug into the skin on his neck. Then, Tony couldn’t stop laughing and Bucky started laughing. He hadn’t laughed this hard in such a long time, and it felt amazing. He thumbed at the tears pricking in his eyes, and his stomach ached. Tony turns the music up, and the song is _fucking weird_. Bucky’s pretty sure the singer has just been repeating “Giddy up” for the past minute. He’s not certain he can trust Stark anymore, because surely his sanity was fading. No sane man would subject himself to this kind of torture, he _was_ certain of that. And this sends him into another round of giggles.

The next song starts and Tony looks at Bucky out of the corner of his eye, “Geggy Tah.”

“What the he-“ Bucky is beginning to grimace, when he is interrupted by Tony completely belting, and butchering the lyrics. Bucky didn’t think the song could get any worse, but here Tony was proving him wrong.

_“Mr. P Sluff rocked ‘em back and forth! While rocking back and forth!”_

Bucky all about jumps out the car and kisses the ground when Tony finally pulls into the small parking lot of the taco place. It’s about the size of a shack with a dinky lit up sign that read “Tago: Tacos to Go.” It was one of those places where you ordered and ate your food outside on dirty picnic benches where you have to really analyze the bench before you sit down, because you’re one careless look away from sitting on a rusty nail. Bucky can’t remember a time his parents decided to slum it and go to one of these. They would probably ground him for a week if they even found out he was eating the food here because, “God knows what kind of stuff they are pumping into that food. I saw a whole thing about it on 60 Minutes.”

“Wade Wilson!” Tony greeted the guy working with a big smile and a fist bump. This Wade Wilson fellow was a fucking intimidating looking guy, his face was riddled with scars, and he looked like he was excellent with hiding a body. Bucky felt awkward and out of place, he glared at his clunky black boots. “Four of your finest, make it extra greasy.”

“Who’s the kid?” Wade asked jutting his chin out towards where Bucky stood a little to the left, behind Tony.

“Oh, him?” Tony tugged Bucky forward and draped an arm over his shoulders. “This is Holden Caulfield, but he prefers Bucky.

“Ah,” Wade smirks. “I remember being a brooding teenager not too many years ago.”

“Some of us still are. Vanessa sure did crack the whip down on you huh?” Tony teases back at him.

“Both literally and figuratively. We should take the kid to see her sometime,” Wade tells Tony and he winks at Bucky, which confuses him, but he’s pretty sure they’re talking about something sexual and he can feel his cheeks start to burn. He’s tempted to hide his face in Tony’s armpit, but he doesn’t want to risk dying of toxic fumes. Though, maybe Tony smells good he’s certainly clean and he’s always put together, even when he’s drunk he manages to have a clean air of cologne surrounding him. Bucky pushes the thought out of his mind. “Where’d you meet the kid anyways?”

“He’s a classmate of mine and he’s my new best friend. He loooves Geggy Tah,” Tony exaggerates and brings Bucky in closer to him.

Bucky rolls his eyes with a huff, and pushes Tony’s arm off of him. He spits onto the ground for added effect looking at his spit he grumbles, “Geggy Tah fucking sucks.”

From where he’s looking, he can only hear Tony gasp dramatically, but he’s sure there was some kind of elaborate hand gesture to go with it. He can also hear that Wade is laughing, which makes his lips turn up, and there he goes again. He can’t stop laughing now, he thinks he may pass out.

“Oh, did I forget to mention that Bucky here is high as fuck?” Tony raises an eyebrow toward Wade, who puts a hand over his heart with a gasp.

“Why no you did not. I better get those fucking tacos out fast.”

“Fuck,” Bucky interjects when he remembers how fucking hungry he is. It’s almost hard to believe he forgot he was so hungry in the first place, but Geggy Tah can put the hungriest man off of his appetite that’s for sure. “I’m so hungry.”

They all three dissolve into a fit of laughter.

Tony leads Bucky around the back of the shack like building to where the tables are. Sitting at one table is a small girl wearing black leather pants, a band t-shirt, and a leather jacket. She had fiery red hair, and a face that looked like it could kill, both with looks and with the deadly murder stare she had going on. She held a cigarette loosely between her fingers, and Bucky was pretty sure he was in love.

“Natasha, my love,” Tony flirtatiously greeted her. He leaned in like he was going to kiss her on the cheek and she glared at him hard, and shot him the bird. He backed away with his hands up, before pushing Bucky towards her. “This is Bucky he seems like your style let him sit with you.”

“Whatever Stark,” She responded coolly putting the cigarette to her lips.

Tony pushed Bucky towards the bench, “Go ahead sit down.”

Bucky scuffled towards the bench and sat down next to Natasha, their thighs touching. Tony sat on the other side facing both of them, and looking rather smug. She turned her head towards him and blew smoke in his face. He tried his hardest but he coughed and glared at her. She just laughed and flipped her hair. She leaned into him, and put her lips so close to the shell of his ear he could feel them when they moved, and whispered, “Looks like Stark is playing matchmaker should we give him a little show. Show him what he wants.”

He swallowed hard, and felt his entire face heat up, “W-what?”

He just wanted some tacos, that’s all he wanted. Tony promised him tacos, well really he only promised him weed, but then he mentioned tacos so technically that was a promise. Tony promised him tacos that’s it. He didn’t know where in the hell tacos got mistaken for pussy, because that’s not what he wanted. Like ever.

Natasha continued whispering in his ear, “You’ve been kissed before right? This won’t be your first?”

Bucky just nodded, he had kissed girls at his old school, hell he had gone even further than kissing. He didn’t particularly liked any of them, but he was a teenage boy for Christ sake. Natasha seemed to take his nod as a go ahead, and she grabbed his chin with the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette and began to slowly move her lips against his own. Bucky pushed her away gently he was just too high for this, too high and too…

“I’m gay,” He blurted out, his eyes went wide and he quickly smacked a hand over his mouth.

“Oh shit,” He heard Wade say, and he looked behind him to see the other man carrying a plate of food towards them. Tony was cackling across from him, holding his phone out at them. _God damn it he had filmed it_. Bucky was reminded how much he hated that guy for the hundredth time that night.

“I- I’m sorry Natasha,” Bucky apologized, frazzled. He turned to Tony and began to beg for his life. His heart was beating so fast, his hands were shaking, and he was pretty sure he was going to start crying any second now. “Tony, Tony please delete that. Don’t show anyone please, just please fuck please.”

Tony turned the phone to him, a sympathetic look on his face, “Look, look it’s gone okay. No one’s gonna know okay? It’s gone.”

Bucky slammed his forehead on the table, and felt hot tears come down his face. He had never told anyone about this before, he hadn’t even dared to say it out loud before. He felt a hand on his back which startled him a little, and when he looked to see who it was it was Wade.

“Hey kid,” The older man smiled at him in an attempt to comfort him. “I’m not real used to the whole comforting delinquent youth thing, or any youth for that matter, because I’m not some pervert. So, don’t get any ideas and start calling me daddy or anything, but it’ll be okay. I know how it feels, the big ole’ Sexuality Crisis™.”

Bucky snorts when Wade actually says the ™ part out loud. His voice is weak and wobbly and he fucking hates how vulnerable he feels, “You do?”

Wade nods, “Yup, I’ve been pansexual for a while now. Let me tell you though, it’s hard when you first find out that you might be what come people consider “different” to put it nicely. Then you realize if putting a dick in your ass is what is gonna keep you from offing yourself, then you gotta do whatcha gotta do. I’d kiss ya instead but I’m in a very committed relationship.”

“We can always get Stark to do it,” Natasha jokes with a sly smile. Then she turns back to Bucky. “Hey, I’m really sorry. Sexuality can be a scary thing, I know too, when I realized I was bi it was such a mixture of relief and fear. Relief because I realized there actually wasn’t anything wrong with me, but fear because I felt so alone. You’re not alone, you befriended Tony Stark which kind of means you got stuck with a whole lot of us. Even if Stark is an absolute pig, and we hate him. To be honest we only tolerate him for his money. So, have a taco and a cigarette and let’s relax.”

Bucky nods, and brings the bottom of his t-shirt up to his face to wipe all the tears and snot off. “Thanks,” He smiles weakly.

“I’m straight!” Tony chirps cheerily, and Bucky and Natasha both shoot him death glares. Wade just rolls his eyes and snorts out a sing-songy, “Lame.”

Bucky picks up a taco off the plate and stuffs the entire thing in his mouth in one go, and lets out a moan around it, “So, fucking good.”

“You better eat those quick,” Tony informs him. “I invited Clint over, he’s the guy who I exchanged my bag for marbles with, anyways he’ll steal those and they’ll be gone before you can so much as blink.”

Natasha lets out a sigh and then dryly retorts, “Marbles really? How is that even a good cover? Bucky remember to buy from me, I put it in tampons. A great way to not get caught.”

“Why the fuck would I need a tampon?” Bucky muses around a mouthful of taco. His chin is dripping with grease, and there’s sour cream on his nose.

They all laugh, he hears Wade muttering, “I can think of a few reasons.” and Bucky feels warm inside. He’s never had friends like these before, and he thinks that maybe if he knew friends like this even existed he would have broken his vow a lot longer ago. That’s how Bucky befriends Tony Stark, and that’s how he inadvertently befriends Natasha Romanov, Wade Wilson, and Clint Barton. Who he later learns is one fucking crazy guy who he couldn’t live without, and he honestly doesn’t know how he went so long without him. The fact his parents would definitely hate every single one of them is only the icing on his angst baked cake.

Bucky spent the rest of that school year blowing off his classes, and his parents, and hanging out with his new friends. He started to build up quite a reputation for himself at his new high school. He was used to most kids ignoring him which is how he wanted it, and some kids cowering away from him as he walked through the hallways, and other kids, the ones who frequented detention wanting him to join their little circle, but being a skinhead bully was never really his style. The more parties he went to with Stark however, the more the kids at his school began to talk about him, because apparently they all had Stark on Snapchat and treated him like some kind of God. That’s right, like a capital G God, like he created the very earth they inhabit, or the oxygen that they breathe. So, Bucky became known as that “Really weird new kid, his name might be James, he’s friends with Tony fucking Stark that’s so fucking cool.”

Bucky couldn’t wait for summer to begin, after that, and just added another reason to his ever growing “Reasons Why I Hate Tony Fucking Stark” list. Summer didn’t seem to get any better, and Bucky was certain his life was doomed to be complete shit from the start. 

“James!” His mother had called from the back patio. She was sitting underneath the awning a glass of lemonade in her hand, and overly large sunglasses perched on her face.

“What,” Bucky snapped, though it was mumbled and lethargic. He had still been sleeping after a night out with Clint and his mother’s shrill voice was not helping the pounding in his head. She smiled at him curtly, and patted the sun chair besides her motioning for him to come sit. Bucky was sure he was a sight to see. Despite it nearing 100 degrees out, he was wearing flannel pajama pants, and a black torn up hoodie. His hair was more similar to a bird’s nest than to anything that should actually be on someone’s head, and the eyeliner he wore, much to his mother’s disappointment, was smeared awfully around his eyes.

“Isn’t it such a beautiful day?” His mother questioned cheerily. She breathed in the scent of the summer, or some shit and Bucky wanted to die. He groaned in response, and flipped onto his stomach so he could hide his face in the towel that was sitting on the chair. It was not a beautiful day, it was too hot, too bright, and too _fucking annoying_. He was pretty sure his mother was just doing this to annoy him too. She had been playing this game far longer than he had, and she had all those years of raising him and systematically brainwashing him to add to her advantage.

“Now, now James don’t be like that,” His mother reprimanded him. “Why don’t you ever want to spend time with me?”

Bucky felt nauseous and it wasn’t just from his hangover. He honestly couldn’t believe his mother would have the audacity to even ask that question. Why would he want to hang out with her? He just loved getting told everything about himself was wrong, it was a great fucking way to spend his day. Yet, her she was fucking pouting her lips at him, literally pouting. He needed get out of this house before he went insane.

 “Ma, I’m going to the movies with Clint today,” Bucky lied. He was sure Clint was down to go though. The guy was down to do anything.

“You are always going out with these friends of yours,” His mother lowers her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose so she can properly look at him. She raises an eyebrow at him, and then continues in a shrill condescending voice. “But I have yet to meet them.”

Bucky stuffs his face into the towel and he wants to scream. He made friends, that’s all his mom asked of him. She can’t just keep adding conditions onto her expectations that is not how things worked.

 “I’m rolling my eyes,” Bucky informs her, his voice muffled by the towel. He turns his head so his cheek is resting on the towel, but he makes sure he is facing away from his mother. He just doesn’t feel like looking at her face. “You’ll meet them at the stupid back to school party you’re forcing on me.”

“James!” His mother objected. He rolled his eyes so far back into his head, he was sure they would get stuck. He was almost disappointed when they didn’t. “This party is not stupid. You know how hard your father and I have worked on this party for you. Be more appreciative.”

Bucky wishes he could be appreciative, but no one ever asked him if he wanted a fucking party. No one ever asked him what he wanted, and he was so sick of not being included in the events of his own life. Bucky stood up and began walked away, his hands shoved into his hoodie’s pocket.

“James, do not walk away just because I pointed out how selfish you are,” His mother chided, her lips in a tight line. _How fucking selfish he was?_ Now that was rich coming from her.

“I’m going out,” Bucky mumbles as he continues walking. He dreaded ever returning to his dumb house, because he knows that that wasn’t the end of their conversation. He was never allowed to have the final word.

                Bucky ends up in the back of an empty movie theater with Clint, who had snuck in boxed wine, and was currently getting wasted before the previews even finished. It was dark in their little corner of the theater, and they were the only two there. Which, wasn’t surprising seeing as it was a discount theater and the movie had gotten terrible reviews.

                “Ya sure you don’t want any?” Clint hiccups his way through the question, tilting the wine towards him.

                Bucky huffs from his slouched position in his chair, eyes focused intensely at the screen. A trailer for some low budget horror movie was playing on the screen. Bucky jumped a little when the screen flashed from black to an image of some demon, and he prayed Clint didn’t notice, and if he did that he would just ignore it. Clint never passed up an opportunity to make Bucky feel like absolute hell, though. It went against his very nature. Bucky swore Clint lived to embarrass him.

                “Ya look like you could use a drink,” Clint slurs with a knowing smirk. Bucky feels the red in his cheek start to intensify when Clint starts to coo at him. “Cheeks all red for me, atta boy. Didn’t even hafta try the whole yawn and arm round ya thing. You’re real easy aren’t ya Buck?”

                Bucky’s response is to sink further into his chair, and worsen his glare. He was sure his demeanor came across as anything but intimidating as his face was currently beet red. Clint was persistent, _that fucker_ , and continued to lean into his personal space. His breath smelled like cheap alcohol, and the movie theater popcorn, and Bucky thought it was disgusting.

                “You ever gotten a handjob in a movie theater before,” Clint whispers playfully in his ear. Bucky’s breath hitches in his throat, and he is just so done with being intimidated by fucking Clint of all people. He hated feeling weak, like people had something over him.

                “Well, I ain’t no virgin,” Bucky quips harshly. He notices the way Clint backs off slightly, notices the flash of concern that runs through his face. He knows he’s overstepped now, which is what Bucky had wanted. That’s what he tells himself, but he can’t help but feel bad. He is grasping at straws inside of his head, for something, anything, to say that would diffuse the uncomfortable tension he had built up. He throws on a sloppy half smile, and teases back. “Why? You offerin’?”

                Then all at once the Clint he knows is back, with a sly smile on his face, “So, that’s a no? And I mean if you’re interested.”

                Bucky couldn’t say anything, he wasn’t sure if Clint was just teasing him. He stared his eyes wide, his lips opened, and he tried to speak, but he couldn’t say anything. There was a part of him, the horny teenaged boy part, that was screaming at him to tell Clint _yes, yes please_ and then there was the more rational part of him that was telling him _no, he’s fucking drunk_ , and he was stuck between the two and didn’t know what to do. His dick was betraying him, and was hardening in his pants. His jeans, being as tight as they were, left nothing to the imagination, and Clint looked down at his crotch and then back up to his eyes. Bucky hated his stupid drunk smile, and the way he looked so eager.

                “Just relax, Buck,” He thinks he hears Clint tell him softly, but his world is spinning all he can hear is a high pitched buzzing in his ears. He nods his head at Clint, because he wants Clint to know that it’s okay, his way of saying yes.

                “No, Bucky,” He hears Clint chastise him. His stomach drops, and he thinks he’s going to puke. Was this all just a game to Clint? To get him all riled up like that, and then tell him no. Clint picks up on his panic, and places a hand on his thigh. “You gotta tell me out loud Buck. Gotta tell me out loud.”

                Bucky runs his tongue over his lips, and looks down at his cock straining inside its confines. _Last chance to back down Barnes_ he tells himself, but it’s too late the words are already out of his mouth, “Yeah, go ahead.”

                Bucky’s head is resting on the back of the plush seat, and Clint is wiping his hand on the seat next to him. Bucky eyes him, grimacing, “Clint, people sit there that’s fucking gross.”

                Clint just shrugs, and laughs. He takes another swig from his wine and starts laughing like an absolute maniac, “You know what Bucky. Let’s never do that again. It was just too-“

                Bucky cuts him off, and finishes the sentence for him, “Weird?”

                “Yeah,” Clint laughs, really he’s still laughing he hasn’t stopped laughing, and Bucky can’t help but start laughing himself. It was weird, it was too weird. They were just friends, best friends, and that was the extent of it. Clint pulls his phone out of his pocket, its light bright in the dark theater. The flash startles Bucky out of his post orgasmic bliss.

                “Why you takin’ pictures of me, Barton?” Bucky hisses, even though he has a dazed smile plastered on his face. Just because it was a weird handjob doesn’t make it any less enjoyable.

                “For my Snapchat story,” Clint explains like it is the most obvious thing in the world. “Gonna caption it ‘Just got my boy off at the movies’ for all of my two hundred followers to see.”

                Clint knows just how to push Bucky’s buttons, and he does so any time he has the advantage. Bucky blushes, and covers his face with his arm. He pushes his back into the chair, and stutters out in disbelief, “Two-two hundred?”

                Clint snorts in amusement, “That’s nothing compared to Stark, he’s got like thousands. You should really get on board with the whole Snapchat thing, Bucky.”

                Bucky keeps his arm pressed against his face, _thousands, Tony had thousands of followers_. Followers who saw all those pictures, and countless of videos he posted of Bucky completely drunk and obliterated on drugs, hanging all over him, because he can’t fucking take care of himself. The videos of Bucky whining while Tony played Geggy Tah in his car, and drove way too fast. The stupid videos that made him some kind of infamous figure at his fucking high school. Bucky groaned and bit into his arm to keep Clint from hearing, he hated Tony fucking Stark.

                They sit in silence for a few long moments, both pretending to be watching the movie, but neither being able to pick up what’s going on since they missed a large chunk of the exposition. Bucky’s twitching in his seat, he could really go for a cigarette, a nasty habit he blamed Natasha for getting him in to.

                “So,” Clint begins, his voice is a higher pitch than how he normally sounds, and that’s when Bucky knows he’s in trouble. “Who’d you think about?”

                “What?” Bucky splutters back, holding in a startled cough.

                “You know when I was,” Clint makes a crude gesture with his hand, and Bucky bites back an embarrassed groan building in his throat. He had given Clint enough power over him for the day. He was sure Clint had enough story time material on him now. “Who were you thinkin’ bout?”

                “Was thinkin’ of you baby,” Bucky replies with a pout on his lips, and he does his best doe eyes to go along with it.

                “Bull fucking shit,” Clint grunts back. “Was it someone I know?”

                “I’m not saying,” Bucky sneers back. He sees the way Clint’s face lights up and he knows he’s made the wrong decision.

                “You didn’t deny it! It’s someone I know. Oh my God!” Clint gasps. “I bet it’s fucking Wade that fucker is smooth as fuck. If I was into dudes I’d be into him.”

                “Wha-what?” Bucky stutters. “You just gave me a handjob, but you aren’t even into dudes?”

                “Think of it as a brojob,” Clint states, with such a smug smile that all Bucky can think about is punching him.

                “You better buy me some fucking cigarettes,” He snarls back. Clint just laughs, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. Bucky feels himself smile too, because even if Clint was the absolute most annoying person on the planet, he was Bucky’s best friend, and he couldn’t ask for a better one.

                The music was loud, some kind of dance remix of a popular song that was playing on the radio 24/7. Bucky hated this song, it was dumb and had no meaning. He hated songs that were just about fucking, drugs, and picking up bitches, which probably falls under the fucking section, but he hated it. Tonight however, he was so fucking drunk that he was pretty sure this was the best song he’s ever heard. After having heard that Bucky’s parents were throwing him a back to school party Tony made it his mission to one up them. He’d use any excuse to throw a party.

                Bucky couldn’t see straight. He was clutching onto Tony for support and was letting the older man drag him through a sea of people. The room was hot, and Bucky felt flush pushed up so close to Tony.

                “Stark,” Bucky slurred wiggling in his grip. “Where you takin’ me?”

                Tony flashed him an affectionate smile, “You look like you need a breather kid.”

                “Need to dance,” Bucky whined. His body was like a wet noodle at this point. He tried pushing away, and God knows he’s much stronger than Tony, but his brain and his body just wouldn’t compute with each other, and he ended up looking like a toddler squirming in their mother’s arms.

                Tony just shook his head and continued to drag Bucky away from the crowd. Bucky whined and pouted, but none of it was getting to Stark, who was surprisingly sober. Bucky was starting to think that this was the end, he was going to get kicked out of his own fucking party. He wasn’t even that drunk, if you didn’t count the two Adios Motherfuckers he drank, if you did then yeah he was absolutely obliterated. He opted not to count them. Bucky scanned the crowd until he found Clint, who was drinking beer out of a funnel. _Classy._

                “Clint! Clint!” Bucky cried trying to get his attention. Clint turned toward him funnel still in his mouth, and gave him a little wave. “Help me! He’s tryina take me away!”

                Clint’s eyes got comically wide and he spit the funnel out of his mouth quickly. He started running over to them, and Tony tried to push them through the crowd, but the people were like a brick wall in their way. Clint tore his shirt over his head, for reasons unknown to Bucky, but if he had to guess it was to look cool while he was “saving the day.” Clint finally reached them, and snatched Bucky away.

                “What do you think you’re doing? You fiend!” Clint exclaimed overdramatically.

                “Yeah!” Bucky added. “I just wanna dance!”

                Tony just rolled his eyes, and gave Clint a look that said “If you don’t hand him over right now I’ll make sure the entire world knows about those dirty picture you have via internet.”

                “You can’t go all John Lithgow on this poor boy, Stark,” Clint explains eyes narrow, inviting Stark into battle.

                “John Lithgow? Fucking Footloose? Really?” Stark questions in amused disbelief.

                Clint just simply clears his throat and begins, “From the oldest of times, people danced for a number of reasons. They danced in pray-“

                Clint was cut off by Bucky puking on his flip flop clad feet. He grimaced audibly and pushed Bucky back to Stark, “Ugh, you can keep him.”

                This time Bucky allowed Tony to lead him through his lavish penthouse, weaving their way through the sweaty mass of dancing people. Bucky didn’t know why all these people were even here. It was his back to school party, and he didn’t even know any of them. He didn’t like that they were at his party, having fun, and he wasn’t. This was all Tony Stark’s fault, and he hated Tony fucking Stark.

                He ended up laying down on Tony’s king sized bed. The comforter was soft, and the pillows were fluffy. His head was spinning, and he couldn’t think straight, but he felt really good. He blinked his eyes at the stuck on glow in the dark stars hanging from the ceiling. _Of fucking course Stark would have those_. He felt himself sink deeper into the bed, and he thought maybe he’d drown in the sheets.

                “Sit up,” He heard Tony’s voice say from somewhere. He couldn’t see him, and when he did sit up he was so dizzy he couldn’t have even tried to make out Tony if he wanted to. The bed dipped and a hand was on his shoulder. His vision cleared a bit, and he saw Tony sitting there holding a glass of water towards him. “Drink.”

                “Can’t,” Bucky slurred, pushing the glass away water spilling over as he did so. “Gonna piss myself.”

                “God damn it Bucky. Drink it,” Tony says more forcefully than he’s ever done before. Tony was becoming a pro at taking care of Bucky over the course of the summer. “You’re not that drunk.”

                Bucky pouts, but takes the glass anyways. He manages to drink most of it, despite a good half of the glass landing on his shirt, rather than in his mouth. He whines at the feeling of the thin cloth wet and sticky on his chest. He gets his left arm out of the arm hole, and attempted to get the rest of it over his head, but nothing is going as planned.

                “Tony, help,” Bucky knew how pathetic he sounded, or maybe he didn’t. He was wasted.

                Bucky couldn’t see anything, the t-shirt over his face obstructing his vision. He would stay like that all night if Tony didn’t help him, but thankfully Tony wasn’t feeling as much of an asshole he usually was and pulled the t-shirt off of Bucky.

                “Tony,” Bucky whispered his voice low and far away. “Wanna dance.”

                “No,” was the immediate response.

                “But it’s my party!”

                “No, Bucky it’s not. It’s my party. At my house, and if it’s at my house I get the final say. And I say no,” Tony snapped back, and he sounded annoyed. Bucky thought it was only fair that Tony got to be annoyed, he stopped having fun once Bucky came around. He stopped getting as drunk as he usually did, so Bucky could get absolutely wasted. He stopped so he could take care of him.

                Bucky thought he was going to be sick again. He fisted the sheets tightly, his knuckles turning white. His stomach twisted in a way he’d never felt before. It was like someone was throwing firecrackers inside of him. It burned, and it ached, and he’d never wanted a feeling to go away so badly before. He looked towards Tony out of the corner of his eye, he was still sitting next to him. He was so close he could feel the warmth of his body radiating off of him, but not close enough to be touching him. Bucky couldn’t think, his head was still spinning, and the water did nothing. He felt foolish, and insecure. Half naked, and drunk off his ass in Tony Stark’s bed. He just wanted to be home, but that wouldn’t even be any better. He had nowhere to go, to feel safe.

                Bucky giggles, that’s what he does, he fucking giggles. He’s so fucked, so completely fucked, because he’s just realized something. He doesn’t hate Tony fucking Stark, nope quite the opposite. He really fucking likes him, he like likes him. He makes a mental note to add that to the number one spot on his “Reasons Why I Hate Tony Fucking Stark” list. Bucky had a good memory, and it took a hell of a lot more alcohol for him to forget, and he knows he’ll remember every event of this night. Especially the really fucking stupid thing he’s about to do.

                Bucky turned his torso so he was facing Tony, and he leaned closer. He was going to kiss him, that’s how dumb he was. He was going to kiss Tony, a man who paraded around the fact that he was straight, but maybe he’d be like Clint. Maybe he’d make an exception for Bucky. Bucky didn’t get to ponder the thought for too long before his face was in Tony’s crotch. He doesn’t really know how it happens, just that he was leaning, and leaning, and everything was spinning and he was so scared, and so tired.

                He hears Tony chuckle, and feels him rub a hand up and down his back before picking him and plopping him back down so he’s lying on the bed again.

“Rest up kid.” Tony smiles at him, and Bucky’s eyes are already closed. He pulls his phone out and snaps a picture of Bucky for his Snapchat story. He captions it “drunk fuck in my bed” and adds the champagne bottle emoji and the heart eyes emoji just to be a little shit.

The day of Bucky’s parents back to school party is absolute hell. His parents insist on him looking nice for his friends, and force him into a polo and khakis. Fucking khakis. His mom has been buzzing around the house cleaning everything, and loudly complaining about how, “If I pay for a cleaning service then I should be given what I pay for, a clean house. Do you know what I see here? A house in desperate need of cleaning. I’m going to have to fire the mediocre service we use and get a new one immediately.”

His mother got a new cleaning service after every one of her parties. Nothing was ever good enough for his mother. He was anxious, and excited to see what her reaction to his friends would be. Especially her reaction to Tony. The guy could be charming, and then immediately turn it against you. Bucky was sure he would find some way to scar his mother.

The doorbell rings, and Bucky answers it to find Natasha and Clint standing there. Natasha was wearing a short black leather dress, and Clint was wearing ugly Walmart brand “Broakleys”, a purple tank top that was far too tight, and Hawaiian printed board shorts. Clint was also holding what looked to be like a tacky 1970’s gelatin cake. Natasha made eye contact with him, and there was something in her eyes he couldn’t really read. It was like a flash of affection, or pity.

“James,” His mother says from behind him before he can even say a word to them. “Why don’t you stop being so rude, and invite them in.”

“Sorry, Ma,” Bucky mutters sheepishly. “Come on in guys.”

“Well,” His mother stares at him her lips pursued. “Are you going to introduce us? Honestly, James you are being very rude right now. I have raised you better. I apologize on behalf of my boy.”

“Ma,” Bucky says through grit teeth. “This is Natasha and this is Clint. We go to the college together.”

“Nice to meet you, Ma’am,” Clint flashes her a smile, and shakes her hand. “I made you this… Thing.”

His mother smiles, and gushes over the stupid gelatin cake, “How lovely! A wonderful party favor!”

                “Nice to meet you Mrs. Barnes,” Natasha greets her, but she doesn’t smile. She just stares at her, lips slightly spread apart, and an emotionless look on her face. She holds her hand out daintily for a handshake.

                “A pleasure, Natasha,” His mother replies with a fake plastic smile, always polite. She shakes Natasha’s hand, and Bucky can tell by the way his mother’s façade falters for a split second, that Natasha has a death grip on her hand. Bucky has to hold in a laugh, and Natasha shoots him an equally amused look.

                His mother takes the gelatin from Clint, thanking him once more and then tells them to make themselves comfortable as she got things ready in the kitchen.

                “You look real nice there, James,” Natasha teased.

                Bucky groaned, he forgot about the stupid outfit he had on, “Don’t.”

                “Real young Republican of you,” Natasha continued despite Bucky’s protests. “Say, Barnes what are your opinions on gun control?”

                Bucky rolled his eyes, and changed the subject, “Where’s Stark?”

                Clint scrunched up his face, and Natasha looked at him and then back to Bucky. “You mean he didn’t tell you?”

                “Tell me what?” Bucky blinked back, a feeling of dread washing over him. He knew what was coming, because he knew Tony Stark. He just had made himself believe that maybe he was different, because it honestly felt that way. It turns out he was wrong.

                “Classic Stark,” Clint groaned clearly irritated. “Always fucking flaking. You could call him fucking Tony the fucking Tiger at this point, they already share a first name it’s not a far stretch.

“Listen,” Natasha says. “He’s not coming.”

There’s a beat of silence and then Bucky grumbles, “I need a cigarette.” Then he’s darting off to his room.

                Bucky was sitting by his open window blowing smoke out of it. His parents would have his fucking head if they ever found out he was smoking, especially that he was smoking inside the house. The house with ancient wood trimmings, and expensive foreign made wallpapers. That would just be unacceptable. Bucky’s seen Sister Sister and their parents found out about them smoking all in the course of an episode, this only leads Bucky to the realization his parents don’t care about him enough to even notice. It’s not exactly like he’s smelling fresh, and sucking down fucking breath mints. He didn’t even like smoking, the first time Natasha offered him a cigarette he choked for about ten minutes straight with irritated tears running down his face. He just scowled in full determination and continued puffing smoke in and out of his lungs until he could finally stand it. He thought it looked cool.

                His door was swung wide open, and then slammed shut again. He didn’t turn around to look, he didn’t care who it was.

                “Let me bum a cig, your mom is insane,” It was Natasha. He was sucking on his last one so he just held it out between his fingers for her to grab.

                They passed the cigarette back and forth in silence. Bucky can feel Natasha’s eyes burrowing holes inside of him, as she stares at him intensely. Natasha had the poise of a spy, and if there was ever a female James Bond she would certainly fill those shoes perfectly. Though, Natasha was much more suited to be a Bond villain, not a Pierce Brosnan one he wouldn’t wish that upon anyone. Roger Moore was acceptable, and despite what anyone says a much better Bond than Sean Connery. Not like he’d ever say that aloud though, that would be considered blasphemy to both Natasha and Clint who were diehard Bond fans. Bucky was more of a sci-fi fan himself.

                “Staring,” Bucky grumbles. He really wishes his hair wasn’t slicked back so he could hide behind it. He needed that as a security blanket, but his witch of a mother had insisted on looking nice for his guests. Even though his _guests_ have seen him piss drunk in ripped glittered covered leather pants.

                “Stark, huh?” Natasha clicks her tongue, and Bucky finally looks at her. She’s got a wolfish smirk painted on her face. _Sure_ , he thinks, _Find my anguish amusing I don’t give a fuck._ “Gotta story?”

                “I hate Tony fucking Stark. It’s just Clint gave me a handjob in a movie theater and was all “Who were ya thinkin’ bout?” and I was like, not out loud he doesn’t know, “Fuck I was thinkin’ bout Stark” so then I was like God I gotta off myself now, cause I’m the president of the “I Hate Tony Stark Club” at school, also the only member cause they all worship his fucking ass, but not I’m some kinda hypocrite. He threw me a party, ya know you were there, and he took me to his room, cause I was drunk. Ya know he doesn’t like when I get wasted, and I tried to kiss him, and I just kinda passed out in his lap. Oh, God I’m in love with him,” Bucky rushed out in a miserable panic. By the time he was done with his little monologue he was panting, and God was he sweating?

                Natasha just stared at him, for what seemed like a really long time. Her face was completely unreadable, until she scrunched her nose up slightly, “You let Clint give you a handjob in a movie theater?”

                “Yeah I don’t think he’s as straight as he wants everyone to believe.”

                “Hm,” She hums. “He’s in college he’s experimenting. Give him time.”

                “Tasha,” Bucky whines, he fucking whines. He feel like he could cry right about now, but God damn it he’s already had one breakdown in front of this woman and he doesn’t want to add to that score. “I just thought maybe he liked me. He’s always lookin’ out for me n’ stuff. I just- He just- he understands. Fuck. I _hate_ him.”

                “You know he’s straight,” Natasha tells him, her voice warning.

                “I just thought maybe,” His voice trails off because he knows how dumb he’s being. But he couldn’t help the part of him that was telling maybe he could change Tony. Maybe he wasn’t actually straight. That there was a spectrum or some shit.

                “No, James,” Natasha snapped. She flicked the cigarette out the window, and gave him a stern look. She then smiled a little. “C’mon we gotta go save Clint from your mom. Also, Clint spiked the gelatin.”

                “Vodka?”

                “MDMA.”

                “Fucking Christ Clint motherfuck-“ Bucky muttered under his breathe continuing his string of obscenities as he quite literally booked it into the kitchen.

                Bucky marched right into the kitchen and picked up that stupid gelatin cake, his stomach turned achingly at the way it jiggled on the plate. Bucky hated gelatin, the way it moved, the way it crawled down your throat, and coated the inside of your mouth. It was edible snot made from horse hooves, for crying out loud. What was enjoyable in that? He picked it up, and held it upside down the stupid thing was stuck to the plate. Just hung to the plate upside down.

                “God damn it,” Bucky grumbled before throwing the plate down on the floor, gelatin smooshing onto the tile.

                “James Buchanan Barnes!” His mother gasped, and she literally clutched her pearls. She had pearls on and she clutched them. “What on earth do you think you are doing?”

                “I hate Jell-O,” Bucky grunts.

                “Aw Jell-O no,” Clint whines.

                “Buchanan?” Natasha snorts at the same time.

                The rest of the party goes something like this:

                Natasha sat at the table spine fully erect shoulders back, and eyes piercing. She stared at Bucky’s mother the entire time. Bucky didn’t even see the woman blink once. It was like watching a wolf in the wild trying to establish dominance. He was just waiting for Natasha to attack his mother next. His mother’s face though was amazing. Her plastic smile still plastered on, but her eyes were looking increasingly disturbed the longer Natasha stared at her.

                “You know, Clint you can take your sunglasses off,” His mother says through clenched white teeth. Clint was making her uncomfortable by wearing sunglasses inside. This shouldn’t bother her as much, as she did live through the 80’s and Corey Hart’s radio hits. That would have been his mother’s prime, but she was probably much too busy discussing Chopin and the symbolism of trains in Anna Karenina to ever listen to popular music. Which was a shame for Bucky because he really liked Tolstoy, but now he looks at it with disinterest. This makes his mother scowl, which is what he wants.

                “Nah, it’s okay ma’am. Got my eyes dilated,” Clint explains. Bucky receives a text from Clint that says:

                Soooo fckn high rn m8

Bucky almost gags at the amount of sunglasses emojis used in the message. He estimates 15, and he would count them but his mother is scorning him, “James, do not have your phone out at the table.”

The party is a bust.

Bucky spends the rest of his summer, all three weeks of it, avoiding summer reading homework and Tony Stark. When school finally comes around he goes over the game plan for this year. Talk to no one, show up to all your classes for at least the first few weeks, and avoid your teachers like the plague. It was a solid plan, one that worked for him all of last year. He was certain he could stick to it. However, with all things in his life that doesn't seem to be the case.


	2. A Table Hijacker and a Punch in the Fucking Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I help you with your Steve Rogers problem,” Loki nods towards  
> Steve who is absentmindedly picking at a rather sad droopy looking sandwich.  
> “And you get me into Stark’s party on Saturday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have nothing to say here rlly  
> enjoy

The first day of school is basically pure torture for Bucky. His teachers all wanted to chat with him. Well, not him specifically. They wanted to chat with the entire class, and give them the “You’re a Senior Now Don’t Fucking Screw it Up” speech, and if they didn’t want to give a speech they wanted to play a “Get to Know Each Other” game, some even did both. _Fucking public school._ Those were the classes Bucky knew he would not be frequenting often.

 The game usually consisted of two truths and a lie. Bucky would glare at the teacher when they would say, “Okay, Mr. Barnes your turn.”

Teachers weren’t so fazed by his teen angst though, seeing as they are surrounded by it every day and have built up some kind of immunity to it, and forced him to participate despite his murderous stare. So, he played along and two truths and a lie for Bucky consisted of three lies, and whatever the rest of the class considered to be the lie he would simply reply, “Sure.”

He was certain that that was going to be the most amount of participation he would offer in class.

Bucky hated the first day of school, because everything was fucking weird. When you walked down the hallway, it was like you were walking through a smog of body odor, Axe body spray and cheap Victoria’s Secret perfume. As the year goes on your body builds up a resistance to it, but on the first day of school you are weak, and it makes your brain cloudy. Also, everyone is annoyingly chipper. They squeal as they’re reunited with their friends, but to Bucky how good of friends can you really be if you never saw each other over the summer? That shit didn’t make sense. The only one he could relate to was Mr. Johnson who worked in the library, and looked like he wanted to fucking murder anyone who walked in and so much as breathed in his direction. He was about eighty years old and smelled of moth balls and stale coffee, and Bucky didn’t understand why the miserable fuck didn’t just retire already.

His last complaint was that everyone dressed way too nicely for the first day of school. Bucky didn’t compromise his aesthetic for the first day of school, he considered himself “too real” for that. His mother had laid out an outfit for him to wear and insisted on him wearing up until he threw the clothes in the pool and told her he couldn’t possibly wear them now, because they, “Got wet.” She threw her arms up in defeat, and complained he was giving her grey hair prematurely. So, yeah he hated the first day of school.

There was one clear solace in a school day however, lunch time. Lunch time was Bucky’s favorite part of the day (besides the actual leaving.) He had a table, a rickety broken picnic table with rusted nails and chipped paint that he had sat at every day last year, and no one had bothered him. He was daydreaming through his first three class periods fixating on the bag of fucking Fritos in his backpack, probably smashed to crumbs by now, and the dirt covered seat of the picnic table. It was his table, and it was well fucking known that no one else was allowed to sit there. Obviously someone didn’t get that memo, because there were two other dumbasses sitting at _his_ table. He saw the face of one them, a young black kid who he recognized from the local paper. He was some track star or something. All he saw of the other kid was the back of his head. He was small, pale as fuck and had wispy blond hair, and it looked stupid sticking up in places despite the shiny product patted into it. He glared at them from a distance as he sat under the shade of a tree. They never looked at him, but he hoped they felt his presence and they felt uncomfortable.

Bucky now knew this year was going to be the worst. He no longer had _his_ lunch table, and he had to suffer through an art class. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t just get a free period since he wasn’t taking a math class. He had all his art credits so it didn’t make sense, but no that wasn’t allowed. Not at this ho-dung high school. So he was forced into AP Studio Art: Drawing. Here’s the real kicker though, Bucky can’t draw for shit. Sure, he can draw a pretty mean snail, and some stick figures shooting guns, but that’s the extent of his artistic talent. He didn’t plan to fail his senior year over an art class, but if that’s what had to be done then it had to be done.

“We’re going to get to know each other today,” The teacher, Mr. Stein or something like that, could be Smith. Bucky was fairly certain it started with an S. “Through art.”

Bucky groans through the entire assignment. They have to draw something that makes them happy. He settles for drawing a cigarette, because they’re easy to draw and he doesn’t hate them as much as he hates basically everything else. He could have lied and said snails make him happy, but then people might think he’s weird. Though, he was rather fond of the memory of a snail he saw eating a Froot Loop when he was 8. _Damn it, should have drawn a fucking snail._

“Okay,” Mr. Stein? Smith? Sanders? Mr. S announces with a clap of his hands. “Go find one person, who you don’t know, and tell them about your drawing. Remember art is about opening up, showing emotion.”

 _Pretentious shit_ , Bucky thinks with a roll of his eyes. He stays in his seat as everyone else shuffles around him looking for a partner. They’re all so fucking enthusiastic. Bucky was never the creative type, he just didn’t understand it. Art didn’t make sense there was nothing concrete about art. There were no rules it was full of interpretation. Math, Bucky understood. Math had rules, and outcomes and right and wrongs answers. There were no gray areas in math.

He glared at anyone who came close enough to him, and was hoping he could get away with this until the bell rang. One girl, her long bleached out hair frizzy, and her teeth covered in braces attempted to come up to him. He snarled at her like a dog, and she practically ran away shaking. He was not prepared for a gentle tap on the back of his shoulder, and a surprisingly deep voice saying, “Hi. I’m Steve Rogers.”

He turned around on his stool to see a short scrawny looking fellow with big rimmed glasses who was dressed like he was getting ready to go to Sunday school. Bucky instantly felt bad for the guy, because he just looked like a guy who got beat up on. Bucky stared at him for a while, not saying anything. The guy looked familiar.

“You breathe loud,” Is what Steve says to break their silence.

“Fuck you,” Is what Bucky responds with, muttered under his breath.

“What’d you draw?” Steve asks with a curious smile.

Bucky was clenching his sketch in his hands the paper all crinkled up now. He laid it flat on the table and attempted to smooth it out. Despite, his semi-best efforts nothing worked. He just sighed, “Cigarette.”

Steve chuckled, “And cigarettes make you happy?”

“Yes,” Bucky answers sharply, he didn’t have time for someone judging him. He glared at Steve hoping to get that message across. Steve was still smiling at him, and not looking like he was about to jump into some anti-tobacco PSA. Keep our air clean, and whatever other bullshit people have tried on him.

“This is my drawing,” Steve gives a shy smile, and places his sketch down on the table. _And holy fuck it’s really good._ It’s of a fat fluffy cat. With details drawn in pencil that look so much like fur Bucky is tempted to reach out and stroke it. The kid is smiling down at his feet all nervous and sweet. “It’s of my cat.”

Bucky wants to hate this kid. A clean cut scrawny guy, who smiles, and is nice, and his fucking cat makes him happy. Bucky wants to hate him, but he doesn’t have a reason to. Until he does. Steve turns around to say something to Mr. S who had called his name, and Bucky gets a perfect view of the back of his head. Wispy blonde hair all stuck up and covered in gel. He’d remember the back of that head, because it belonged to the table hijacker. Bucky now officially hates Steve Rogers.

He lets out an annoyed huff, and Steve looks back to him like he’s concerned. Like he has any right to be concerned. Stealing _his_ God damn table. Bucky squints his eyes, intensifying his glare. Steve just smiles, and pushed his glasses up his nose nervously, “Do you like it?”

 _Yes_ Bucky thinks _I really fucking like it_ instead of saying that he just glares. He glares until Steve’s smile disappears, and he glares until Steve starts to look angry. Then he says, through gritted teeth, “I prefer dogs.”

And it’s all very unnecessarily mean, and extremely fucking petty but he has to make a point, or else the situation is moot. He continues to glare until Steve lashes out, “Whatever you freaking jerk!”

Bucky wants to laugh at how PG that insult was, or how red Steve’s face had gotten, or how funny he looked stomping off, but he can’t laugh because he feels bad. He has to remind himself that he now hates Steve Rogers Table Hijacker, and has no reason to feel bad. He still doesn’t laugh, though.

After school Bucky went to Burger King, because that’s where Clint worked and Bucky never saw anyone from his high school there, because who the fuck wants to hang out at a Burger King. The food was detestable, none better than the food that the cafeteria served. Clint only worked there for two reasons, the pies, and the fact he knew the guy who owned that particular building and he never drug tested. So, Bucky went to Burger King and he sat in the corner with his free pie Clint always gave him, and stared out the window.

                “Why ya lookin’ like ya gonna murder someone?” Clint asks him. He’s been shooting spit balls at him for the last half hour, Bucky doesn’t understand why he thinks that question is valid. Clint isn’t that dumb, even when stoned, he should be able to deduce that answer. He also knows that Clint is smart enough to realize that Bucky’s mood was sour the moment he stepped into the grease infested building.

                “C’mon Buckaroo,” Clint coos, in a strange cartoon voice that is both disturbing and annoying. “Your day that bad?”

                “Yes,” Bucky hisses. He stabs his pie with the plastic fork for emphasizes. Murdering a pie, by any other method but consumption, obviously signaled a bad day. Clint gasps dramatically as Bucky murders the pie, plastic fork bending under the force. He doesn’t realize how into the murder of his pie he is until he gets a text from Clint:

                wunna talk bout it??????

                Bucky responds with:

                y txt ?

                “Wanna talk bout it?” Clint says out loud this time. Bucky glares at him. Clint just smiles back and waggles his eyebrows. They continue this weird staring contest, with Bucky glaring, and Clint’s smile only getting larger, and creepier.

                Bucky sighs in defeat, and throws his fork across the restaurant. Which earns him a glare from the elderly woman who’s been drooling over a Whooper for the past 15 minutes. “It’s Steve Rogers Table Hijacker.”

                “Who is this Steve Rogers Table Hijacker?” Clint chuckles.

                “A fucking punk who stole _my_ table,” Bucky growls. Clint’s laughing at him. Bucky gets another text from Clint:

                cunt beleaf u own a hole table!!!!???

                The text is accompanied by three money mouth emojis. Buck rolls his eyes and replies:

                whole*

                “Fuck you,” Clint grumbles. “James Buchanan Barnes fucking grammar police.”

                Bucky looks Clint straight in the eye, the slightest bit of a smirk on his face. He picks up the cardboard cup of soda in front of him. He slowly brings it to his lips and takes a sip. He can see the sweat dripping from Clint’s forehead. It was like a Western stand-off.

                “Don’t you dare, Barnes,” Clint sneers.

                Bucky tilts his head to the side, “I haven’t a clue what ya mean?”

                Then Bucky does it, he turns the cup completely upside down and watches as the liquid and the ice come flowing out right onto the sticky vinyl floor. Bucky realizes it is a completely petty move, but Clint isn’t earning minimum wage to stand around and talk with his friends. He looked like he needed some work.

                “Aw soda no,” Clint whimpers. He looks as if someone kicked his puppy. Bucky just smirks in accomplishment.

                “Fucking grand,” A laughing voice bellows. Clint and Bucky both direct their attention to none other than Tony Stark holding his phone out. “Snapchat story worthy.”

                “Hey, Tony,” Clint greets dejectedly still looking mournfully at the puddle of carbonated liquid. “What brings you round our part of town?”

                “I’m here to take Caulfield off your hands,” Tony smirks at Bucky. Bucky feels his face heat up out of a mixture of embarrassment, hatred, and fucking fondness. He’s missed Tony fucking Stark, and that’s the worst part of this whole predicament. He wants to see him, and since he wants to he has to pretend he does not want to. It is exhausting.

                “What’d’ya want Stark?” Bucky spits out. His throat is thick, and his voice is filled with acid, but if you were to look closely and really study his face, his eyes, you’d see there was silent longing in them. Stark did just that. He looked Bucky right in the eyes, and he wasn’t dumb no matter what his antics tried to make him out to be. The guy was a genius and he could read Bucky like a fucking book when he needed to.

                “I’m not here to play nice,” Stark begins, his face is strict, but he’s still got that playful smirk on his lips. That stupid smirk that seemed to always be attached to his face, it was as if it was super glued onto him. “We have some things we need to talk out. Don’t we Barnes?”

                Bucky crossed his arms over his chest, and looked towards Clint. Clint was taking turns looking at both of them, and then back to the puddle of soda between them. Clint gave on glance to Bucky, and offered him a shrug. That was about as good as Bucky expected Clint to give him seeing as he had no clue what was going on between them. Bucky planted both his hands firmly on the table and pushed himself grumbling under his breathe, “Fucking hate Tony fucking Stark.”

                Tony ushers him outside, an arm slug around his shoulders. Bucky hates how he likes being this close to the other man. They’re outside the heat from the concrete rising and hitting them in the legs, and the heat from the sun beaming down on them hitting them in the face. “So, do you really hate me kid?”

                “I ain’t a kid.” Bucky shakes Tony’s arm off of his body, and kicks at the gravel. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and glowers at the ground. He knows Tony’s giving him some kind of pointed amused look, because he knows he’s a kid. He knows he acts like a bratty moody teenager, because that’s what he is. He doesn’t even know why he pretends he’s not anymore. “And I do.”

                “Listen, I’ve got it on good authority that you’ve been having dirty dreams about my dick,” Stark smirks at him like he’s go the upper hand. Bucky growls out a frustrated noise, he feels betrayed. He can’t believe Natasha would just up and tell Tony fucking Stark about his feelings for him. It was meant to be a secret. He confided in her, because he thought he could trust her. Obviously, he was wrong.

                “Look Caulfield, I know I’m pretty irresistible,” Tony’s smile is full of joking arrogance, but it just makes Bucky’s skin crawl in a way that feels awful, and good all at once. “But I don’t feel that way about you. For one, I am straight no doubt about that. Dick just doesn’t do it for me. I’m sorry, but I am all about the boobs, and the muff. Gotta have the muff.”

                Bucky still isn’t look at him, he’s found a candy bar rapper on the ground and has decided to read the ingredients and the nutritional information instead of listening to Stark babble on in a half attempted apology for being straight and not interested. _Based on a 2000 calorie diet, Tony Stark is based on a 2000 calorie diet made of pure bullshit._ He thinks bitterly.

                He feels Tony’s fingers wrap around his arm just below the elbow, and Tony say, “Look I don’t really know what I’m trying to say. I’ll give you this, only once. It’s a gift.”

                And then Tony’s lips are on his, and his whole entire body is burning. He feels like he’s going to catch on fire. He did a report on spontaneous human combustion before he’s pretty sure that it can happen, and it’s about to happen to him. He’s going to spontaneously combust. He wants to enjoy this, he can feel his lips move against Tony’s and he wants to enjoy it. He’s been wanting this for so long, since before the party when he actually _realized_ he wanted it. He wants it so badly, but he can’t have it because it’s fake. It’s all fucking fake. He pushes Tony off of him, and in one frenzied non-calculated move punches him square in the nose, “You’re a fucking asshole!”

                Tony’s nose is bleeding, it’s bleeding. It’s probably broken. He broke Tony’s nose. His stomach is in knots, and he thinks he’s going to be sick. Tony’s taking a step toward him, one hand covering his bloody nose, the other outstretched like he’s going to touch Bucky. Bucky bats him away, and before he can do anything else he’s throwing up all over the concrete.

                “C’mon, slugger. I know I have this effect on people,” Tony groans, motioning between his bloody nose and the puddle of vomit with his free hand. “But never both at the same time.”

                “Fuck you, Tony,” Bucky is shouting. He’s going for intimidating, and he’s sure some of that is getting across, but he mostly sounds hurt. “Just fuck you I lo-“

                Bucky’s interrupted by Clint, who was no doubt watched the exchange from inside the Burger King, rushing outside and putting an arm around Bucky. “Let’s go Bucky. I get off in like fifteen minutes. Then we can go to the Circle K and get some slushies to spike with alcohol,” Clint soothes. Bucky nods, he’s not beyond anger, but he feels like he could cry at any moment. _God damn it do not cry_. He then turns to Stark. “I don’t what the fuck you think you’re doing, but get the hell away from here before I fuck the rest of you up. I’m feeling fucking angry tonight, Stark.”

                There’s a million different things running through Bucky’s head. Things he wants to say. _Fuck you Stark. You don’t deserve me, you don’t deserve any kind of love. You are a fuck up your parents were right, they are fucking right. Alcoholic, junkie, spoiled, fuck up. I fucking hate you._ He wants to spit those out right in his fucking face. He wants to, but he can’t. He can’t. He can’t because all he has running through his head are the stupid moments they shared together, and he finds it fucking ironic that his most intimate memories of Tony were almost always documented in his fucking Snapchat story. Tony’s story had the equivalent length of a movie each day, and Bucky was the supporting lead.

                _They were in the toy’s section of a Wal-Mart. Tony had told Bucky that, “This is where young blooded American teenage youths go to harass innocent lower middle class shoppers trying to find the best deal” and then promptly drug him there. Tony was ogling some robot they had on the shelf. “When I was a kid the closest we could get to robots were fucking expensive. Good thing I was rich as fuck.”_

_Bucky didn’t know where this anecdote was going, it didn’t seem very Snapchat story worthy, not for Stark. Of course Stark did the occasional bragging about his wealth, but it usually wasn’t this boring. Still, Bucky just watched him from the giant bouncy ball he was sitting on._

_“Hm, what’s this do?” Stark muttered to himself, and pressed a button. The robot started to make a noise similar to an alarm, and Bucky freaked the fuck out and jumped a little. He lost his balance and fall off the ball only to hit his head on a shelf and send it collapsing to the ground with him._

_Through his laughing Tony managed to get out a very innocent, “What? It said “Push to Try.””_

_Bucky gave a half dazed glare, he was pretty sure he was concussed. Definitely Snapchat story worthy._

_Bucky was holding a tattoo gun in his slightly shaky hands. Tony was drunk, and had instigated the whole thing. Bucky was drunk too, but he was a much more tactile drunk. Tactile and reasonable, and easily coerced into doing dumb shit._

_“C’mon Barnes,” Tony pushed. “You aren’t gonna make him any uglier.”_

_Wade puts on a face full of mock offense, “You sayin’ I’m ugly?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“You weren’t sayin’ that in bed last night.”_

_“No, shit! That was you?”_

_Bucky looked between the two. He was the only who considered this a bad idea. Even the guy who owned the tattoo parlor told him it was cool with him. They didn’t even have to beg, the guy had just let them without a second thought. He willed his hands to stop shaking._

_“The fuck is that supposed to be, Barnes?” Tony was laughing his ass off. Bucky had tattooed a crude looking image of what was supposed to be a pair of tits in an empty spot on Wade’s heavily tattooed upper forearm. Tony zoomed in on it._

_Wade laughed his body shaking making the video go blurry for a second before refocusing, “I like it don’t sweat it Bucky.”_

_Tony captioned it ‘when you let a gay guy give you a tit tattoo’_

_Bucky was drunk, really fucking drunk. He couldn’t feel his feet. “Tony! Tony! I can’t feel my feet!”_

_Tony was drunk too, and he was laying across Bucky’s lap. They were on his couch, watching Chopped reruns and playing some kind of drinking game. Well, it started as a drinking game. Every time a contestant forgot an ingredient take a shot, argued with a judge take a shot, said the female chef wasn’t their competition take a shot. Now they pretty much took a shot when someone blinked._

_Tony held his finger against the screen watching the red fill the outer circle. He was using the puppy filter on Bucky. His face was flushed, his hair was pushed back stuck up by sweat, and his eyes were wide and happy. That one got a lot of views, and screenshots._

                Bucky was sitting on the floor of Clint’s apartment staring at the cherry slushie in his hands. He hadn’t put any alcohol in it, and to be honest he didn’t really want to. He wanted to be a normal teenager who could enjoy a fucking slushie without dousing it with vodka, or tequila. He wanted to drink it and get nostalgia from getting them after baseball practice or some shit. He would never get that. He gets a text from Clint, who’s sitting on the couch hitting him in the head with his feet:

u n stark?????

                The text is riddled with suggestive face emojis, and heart emojis of various colors. Bucky texts back:

i tld nat crsh n she mst f tld

                Clint, the intuitive bastard that he is texts him:

just crush?????

                Bucky rolls his eyes at the thinking face emojis. He wants to be mad at Clint for being so observant. For being so dumb, he was actually pretty damn smart:

mor thn

                Clint speaks this time, “Wanna talk bout it?”

                Bucky pursues his lips together. _No._ He texts Clint:

                md @ nat.

                “She must have had a good reason,” Clint reasons, and of course he would always be on Natasha’s side. He’s known her longer, for years. He’s built up a system of trust with her. Which, apparently is hard to do, because she doesn’t trust anyone with her secrets. Yet, somehow Clint has gotten her to spill, and he always holds that over her head when he’s too lazy to get up to get a beer.

                Bucky frowns at his phone, he knows Clint is right. He knows why Natasha did it too, but that doesn’t mean he likes it:

                sed il hm

                “What?” Clint is scrunching up his face trying to decipher Bucky’s code. Bucky wants to scream, he doesn’t have the energy for this anymore. “Oh… _oh_.”

                Bucky finally speaks, his throat is dry and his voice cracks, “Yeah.”

                “Drink that before it melts, that came outta my paycheck,” Clint jokes motioning to the cup in Bucky’s hand. Bucky shoots him a glare, but drinks the entire thing. It’s cold and he drinks it too fast and sharp pain shoots at his brain. He ignores it, and drinks faster.

                As soon as he closes the door behind him he hears the shrill demanding call of his mother, “James Buchanan Barnes where on earth have you been?”

                He can’t help the wave of guilt that washes over him, and he hates it. He shouldn’t feel bad, because his mother doesn’t actually care. He’s so sure of that. Yet, he can’t help but feel bad every time she disapproves of something he’s done. He’s never ready for a lecture of hers, and tonight it’s only made worse by the fact that he feels as though he’ll burst into tears any moment now.

                “You missed dinner, James. We were worried about you,” His mother softens her voice, and he looks up to see his father is standing with her. The guilt hits him again, like a punch to the stomach. It wasn’t often his father was home in time for dinner, and when he was it always made his mother so happy. She would croon about how, “The family is all here!” with a smile the size of fucking Texas. It was a real smile, not one of her slick lizard smiles, and those were rare for his mother. He had fucked it all up.

                “I’m fine,” Bucky can’t help the way his voice shakes, and his lip quivers. _I’m sorry_ he thinks. Then he scoffs to himself and thinks _You weren’t even worried_. He doesn’t have the guts to say either right now.

                “What is going on with you James?” His mother questions. He stares at his shoes. _Fuck._ He feels tears prick at his eyes, and he can’t cry. Not here, not in front of them. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

                “I said I’m fine. I don’t need a damn intervention!” Bucky lashes, and then he turns and stomps off to his room and slams the door. There’s a knock on his door, and he wants to ignore it so fucking much, but the guilt has already begun to eat at him. He wipes his face trying to hide the evidence that he’d started crying. _Fucking baby._

He opens the door expecting his mother to be there, but it was his father who was standing in front of him. His father was a tall man, he had a few inches on Bucky, and he was rather intimidating. “Helps with the job, huh?” Everyone would joke when they discovered he was an attorney. It’s easy to forget when he’s home, because it doesn’t happen often. He’s usually away at the office, or wherever the hell he fucks off to. His father grabs him by the collar with one hand, and by the hair with the other. He pulls his hair back so Bucky’s looking at him in the eyes.

                “You go and apologize to your mother,” His father growls. His breath is hot and stale when it hits Bucky’s face. He tries to back away but his father just grips at his hair harder. “And you stop crying, before I give you something to cry about. You are almost a grown man, James. Men do not cry.”

                Bucky just gives him a defiant look that tells him to, “Give me something to cry about. I dare ya.’” So, his father does. He grips his hair impossibly tight, pulling at it and releases his grip on his collar and whacks him across the face so hard it leaves a bright mark on his cheek. Bucky hisses out air through his teeth but shows no emotion. He pretends it doesn’t hurt, it does.

                He lays in his bed watching the ceiling fan go in circles above him. He can’t cry now, even though no one’s watching him. He can’t cry out of spite. His father wanted him to cry, that’s why he had smacked him. So, now he couldn’t cry. It fucking sucked. He’s not going to apologize to his mother, not tonight at least. So he just lays there staring at the ceiling fan, and wills himself not to cry.

                Bucky was sitting under his tree, glaring at Steve Rogers Table Hijacker who was still sitting at his table. Today he was alone, and his friend was nowhere to be seen. Bucky was doing a fine job sucking on a cigarette and glaring at the table hijacker when some sophomore came up to him. The kid was lanky, with long black hair, dressed like a dollar store Marilyn Manson and spoke with a weird accent.

                “You Barnes?” The kid asked him.

                Bucky glared. He was hoping the kid would take a hint, and then take a fucking hike. He didn’t need a fucking child following him around. The kid didn’t take a hint and continued standing over Bucky invading his personal space.

                “My brother,” Is what the kid says with an upward tilt of the chin.

                “The fuck bout him?”

                The kid chuckles, and it’s fucking creepy, “Said he owed you a favor.”

                The kid is reaching into his bag, and Bucky honestly has no clue what’s going on. He’s ignoring the kid focusing his glare back on Steve Rogers Table Hijacker. Steve looks over his shoulder at Bucky with a glare to match. Bucky feels the corners of his mouth twitch, because Steve Rogers Table Hijacker looks anything but intimidating. He looks like a Chihuahua puppy.

                When the Marilyn Manson wannabe- which is sad because everyone knows Manson is just some kinda Alice Cooper wannabe- taps him on his shoulder he’s reminded of the presence looming annoyingly over him. The kid hands him a Tupperware container, “Said to give you this.”

                He opens it, and tries his hardest to contain his shock. It’s a fucking snake, and then… oh. Through the drunken haze of his mind, he remembers the night this all went down.

                “Your brother is Thor?”

                The kid makes some kind of strange hissing noise that could be interpreted as a, “Yes.” Then slinks away towards the cafeteria.

                Bucky hates a lot of things, he hates most things in fact. However, he does not hate Thor. Thor went to the college with him, and was a really nice guy. He was a frat guy, and Bucky hates frat guys, but he was cooler than most frat guys. His parents owned a snake sanctuary called Asgard right off the highway, which made him cool in Bucky’s book. Tony had dragged Bucky to a frat party, and that’s where he had met Thor. It’s also where he had drunkenly challenged Thor to a milk drinking contest. Bucky had won, and Thor had thrown up a half gallon of milk, and owed him a snake. He honestly hadn’t expected him to deliver on his promise as it had been four months since the bet was made, but here he was four months later with a Tupperware container with a snake in it sitting in his lap. Bucky definitely did not hate Thor.

                When the bell rang Bucky took the snake out of the container and put it in the pocket of his black cargo pants, and stubbed out his cigarette. Bucky stomped to class, scowling at anyone who came close to touching him with their shoulders, but his stomp was a happy one as he was thinking of names for his snake.

 _Jafar… Juju… Kaa… Sir Hiss…_ Bucky ran out of names at this point.

Bucky discovers art class is absolute hell. They do nothing, which would typically not bother Bucky, but art class was fucking stupid. Everyone just pattered around each other looking at their drawings, and Bucky swears to God if another person asks him what he’s drawing he’s going to stab them with his fucking charcoal pencil.

He noticed how no one went up to Steve, to ask what he was drawing. Steve was moving furiously across the paper, his eyebrows knitted in concentration, and his tongue stuck out of his mouth. Steve was approachable, he dressed like a Goodwill grandad, and Steve was nice. Bucky could tell Steve was nice. Bucky, however, was not approachable, nor was he nice. So, it didn’t make sense that people would come up to him, and ask what he was drawing but not ask Steve.

“Hey! Bucky!” He heard a shrill voice chirp at him. He curses the day he ever allowed Tony fucking Stark to film him, and put it on Snapchat for his entire high school to see, and learn his nickname. Any sense of anonymity was officially lost at that. Fuck Tony. “What are you drawing?”

He turned to the girl who was tapping at his shoulder, and pointed his pencil right in her face. He didn’t say anything, he just scowled at her and broke the pencil in half without breaking eye contact. The girl made a horrified face before scuffling back to her group of friends with an exaggerated, “Oh my God! Jessica did you see that? He’s a psycho!”

Bucky looked over at them, and found the girl who was presumably Jessica, and bared his teeth at her. She let out a horrified gasp. Bucky just laughed to himself, and then stalked over to Steve. He plopped down on the stool next to Steve and watched as the other boy drew. They stayed liked that for a long silent moment before Steve broke it.

“You know maybe if you quit smoking you wouldn’t breathe so loud.”

“Fuck you.”

Then it was quit again, and Bucky just watched. Steve was drawing a cat, another fucking cat. It was one of those long haired cats this time too. Bucky hated them. They had too much fur, and they got it everywhere. His mom used to have a cat like that when he was younger, he’s pretty sure it died, because one day he just never saw it again. His mom never said anything about it, and he never asked.

“I have something I want to show you,” Bucky leans in and whispers to Steve. He isn’t sure why he’s even showing Steve. Steve Rogers who is his enemy. Maybe, he’s hoping it’ll scare him, but it seems Steve Rogers Table Hijacker is not so easily deterred. “You can’t tell anyone, though.”

“Or what? You’ll snap a pencil in my face?” Steve bites back sarcastically. Bucky doesn’t even find this offensive, and he can’t help but chuckle. His laugh makes Steve blush, he can see the red rising on the back of his neck, and can tell Steve is trying really hard to look like he’s not sorry.

“Just look punk.”

“Oh my God!” Steve practically shouts. A few people turn to look at him, but quickly look away when they notice nothing exciting is happening.

“Don’t be so loud asshole,” Bucky hisses.

“Is that a-a?”

“A snake? Yeah.”

“Why do you have? Where’d you get? What?”

“Weird sophomore kid real Marilyn Manson wannabe.”

“Loki? I’d say it’s more 90’s Trent Reznor.”

“I’m not here to argue semantics,” Bucky growled, the snake in his pocket wrapping itself around his hand.

“Why are you here?” Steve questions, his voice bordering uninterested, and sarcastic. Bucky looks down at his snake and smiles, he would probably like Steve Rogers if he didn’t have to hate him.

                “I need a name for it,” Bucky gestures to the snake wrapped around his hand.

                “Uh, I don’t know,” Steve looks up from his drawing in a moment of thought. “I don’t know. Reese Slitherspoon.”

                The laugh surprises Bucky, but he can’t help it. He throws his head back, and he genuinely laughs. Steve looks up at him trying to hide his smile by sucking at his lower lip, but it’s a fruitless effort and he finds himself laughing along with the other boy.

                “Reese Slitherspoon, that’s fucking amazing,” Bucky says between his laughter. He claps Steve on the back, which makes Steve jump. They both share a moment, laughing too hard to even keep their eyes open. Bucky feels the familiar warmth he felt that first night with Tony, and all of his friends, and he knows he shouldn’t. He isn’t allowed to be friends with Steve Rogers, because Steve Rogers is an enemy. Steve Rogers is a Table Hijacker.

                Steve is looking up at him with fucking Bambi eyes like he’s going to say something, but Bucky clears his throat making Steve snap his lips shut, and begins talking his voice low, and strained, “I liked your drawing of your uh cat, but you are an enemy, Steve Rogers.”

                Bucky then aggressively gets up from his seat by Steve and stomps back to his own and snatches his bag off of the table. Steve’s confused, “What the hell?” Is drowned out by the bell ringing.

                The hallway is swamped with kids trying to make their way out of the building. Bucky doesn’t want to get caught in a mess like that, and slumps in a corner watching them run about like a herd of sheep. When he finally manages to march his way out of the building, the sun is fucking beaming down on him. He has to shield his eyes with his hand to keep from being blinded, and scans the parking lot for Clint’s car. When he finally spots Clint’s beat up 97 Nissan Maxima he sees that Natasha is leaning against it, dressed in her ballet clothes.

                Begrudgingly he makes his way to the car, and stomps in front of the woman. He scowls and grunts out, “Mad at you.”

                She closes her eyes, and hums, “It was for your own good.”

                Bucky scoffs, “Do you even know what he did?”

                “Get in the car.”

                Reluctantly Bucky obeys, getting inside the car only to slump down in the passenger’s seat looking rather cross.

                “You’re pouting,” Natasha chides voice even and low. It would almost sound bored, or sarcastic if Bucky didn’t know that, that was just how Natasha sounded.

                “Why do you have Clint’s car?” Bucky decides to go for changing the subject instead of blowing up in her face and screaming that he “Damn well has the right,” to pout.

                “Stole it.”

                “You stole Clint’s car?”

                “It’s not hard he’s an idiot.”

                “What’s wrong with your car?”

                “Nothing.”

                Seeing he’s going to get nowhere in this conversation, he asks the bigger question that is hanging over the two, “Why are you here?”

                “Listen Bucky,” Natasha begins and Bucky swears he can hear hints of apprehension in her usually cool steady voice. “Stark is an asshole.”

                Bucky snorts, “No kidding.”

                “I only told him, because I wanted him to talk to you. To I don’t know let you down easy. He’s a dumbass I should have known he’d do something ridiculous.”

                “Have you talked to him?” Bucky has to swallow hard, so hard it’s almost painful just to open his constricting throat enough to speak. Natasha just nods. “So, how is he?”

                She lets out a soft sigh, “He misses you.”

                “Bullshit.”

                “He does. He knows he’s messed up. He’s gonna drink himself into a stupor over you. You were his friend.”

                “Natasha,” Bucky all but whispers his voice is heavy with emotion. _Do not cry. Don’t you dare._ “I still like him. I-I still _love_ him.”

                Natasha reaches over, and brushes his hair out of his face. She then moves her hand to his chin and turns his face to her so she can look him in the eyes, “Don’t you cry over him. This is not the end of the world. You deserve better than Tony Stark, anyways.”

                Bucky can feel the tears welling up in his eyes, and threatening to spill over, but he nods anyways. He won’t cry, not over Tony Stark no matter how bad the pain in his chest feels. Bucky stuffs a hand in his pocket and laughs when he hears a hissing noise. He pulls the snake out letting it wrap itself around his hand, “Hey, can you take me to the pet store?”

                “A snake?”

                “From Thor. Reese Slitherspoon.”

                “You named it Reese Slitherspoon?”

                “No, but that’s its name.”

                At the pet store, Bucky walks up and down the aisles looking at different snake habitats while Natasha taps on the glass of the fish displays. She’s an actual menace, and enjoys the fish following her finger and getting confused.

                “When I was young,” Natasha begins, fish still following her red polished finger. “I owned several goldfish. My favorite part was when they died, because I got to flush them down the toilet.”

                “Did you at least set them on fire beforehand?” Bucky teases.

                “Viking funeral,” Natasha hums pleasantly, a high pitched hum was as close of a laugh as she ever gave.                

                Waiting for a goldfish to die because you get some sort of excitement, or a joy, out of flushing them down the toilet would seem a bit morbid, for anyone, not just a child, if Bucky didn’t have an inkling of an idea of what the redhead was talking about he would probably be horrified. He thinks she is, in her own way, trying to tell him that sometimes letting go can be the best part of a relationship. There is probably a better way to convey that sentiment, but Natasha was never really into doing things conventionally. Maybe, he was overthinking it, and she was just offering an anecdote from her child. That was rare for Natasha, who rarely spoke of her past, and if she did it was like she was Jesus telling the disciples a parable on how to make fishers out of men, or some shit.

                After wondering the store for about twenty minutes, Bucky finally settles on buying some snake starter kit, which comes with all the essentials. He isn’t sure how he’s going to hide the rather large glass enclosure from his mom, though. That was a severe oversight. He decides to ignore the problem and deal with it when he gets back to his house.

                Natasha is holding Reese in her hand letting the snake wrap itself around her arm. While Bucky props the large boxed kit on his hip and waits by the cash register. There is no employees in sight, and Bucky’s starting to think this whole thing is mirage or a dream he hasn’t woken up from. Then in true real life fashion, heavy on the sarcasm, a teenage boy erupts from the large cage the birds were in. A large cat tree was blocking Natasha and Bucky’s view of the cage leaving the man camouflaged and out of their line of sight. Bucky jumped a little at the land noise of the cage slamming open and a bird or two escaping fluttering about the store. Natasha looked ahead calmly, her eyes focused on the man.

                Birdguy, as Bucky dubbed him, wore a red vest proclaiming the store’s name on the left side and a nametag on the right. Bucky ignored the nametag, in favor of calling him Birdguy. When he got a closer look at him he realized he was the companion to his enemy, Steve Rogers Table Hijacker. He flared his nostrils, and set his eyes in a dead glare at the boy. Natasha gave him a confused look, before rolling her eyes clearly used to his antics by now.

                “Sorry,” Birdguy calls out as he tries to corral the birds that got out back in their cages. When he finally manages, after knocking down a display of dog food, and ripping a few bags of hamster feed, he jogs over to the two. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

                “Oh, it’s fine,” Natasha flips her hair, slightly wavy from being tucked up in a bun for ballet, with the hand that Reese isn’t curled around. “What were you doing in the bird cage anyways?”

                Bucky doesn’t miss the way Birdguy’s eyes look Natasha over, or the way he smiles nervously running his hands over his jeans, “Oh, you know, hanging out with the birds is just uh relaxing to me. That’s probably really weird, sorry. If my boss asks I was cleaning it.”

                “Hm, I’ve heard weirder,” Natasha replies, her voice its usual steady uninterested tone.

                “What can I help you with?” Sam asks, he’s eyeing the snake around Natasha’s hand fairly certain he knows the answer so he continues. “We have some really nice habitats and enclosures you can pick from. If it’s your first time having a snake we have some really neat kits.”

                Bucky let out a low growl from the back of his throat and jostled the box in his arms a bit. Natasha let out a smug chuckle when Birdguy looked up at him, like he just now noticed him. Bucky sat the kit down on the checkout counter, and glared even harder at Birdguy.

                “Bucky, be nice to Sam,” Natasha reprimands, but her voice is clearly teasing. _Sam? Don’t you mean Birdyguy Co-Table Hijacker_? Natasha stage whispers, “He doesn’t need your shit he’s already in the service industry.”

                This earns a hearty laugh from Birdguy as he scans the item. He mumbles off the amount and Bucky pulls out two of the saddest most crumpled up twenty dollar bills anyone’s ever seen out of his pocket and tosses them on the counter. Sam visibly grimaces as he tries to smooth out the bills, but to no avail they stayed in a miserable shriveled up form.

                Sam leans across the counter as he hands Bucky his change, obviously trying to look suave and get a closer look at Natasha, “So, you know my name.”

                Natasha nods he face completely blank, “Correct.”

                Sam isn’t fazed by her icy tone, “So, what’s yours?”

                “Natasha.”

                “I haven’t seen you around the high school before, and I would have remembered seeing you before,” Sam is laying it on thick, trying to come off as charming as he can. Bucky makes another low growl in his throat, stuffing the change and the receipt in his pocket.

Natasha just tilts her head ever so slightly, and gives the tiniest of smiles in Sam’s direction, “I really try not to be seen.”

And Bucky swears Birdguy physically shivers, at her words. Natasha heads no mind, and whips around walking out the door going out of her way to walk right through the hamster feed that had spilt tracking it along with her. She was flirting back, in her own odd way. Bucky thought it was disgusting, Natasha fraternizing with a known enemy.

Once in the car, snake kit stuffed in the backseat, Natasha smiles as she takes the steering wheel in a cat like grip, “Tony is throwing a party this Saturday. You should invite him.”

Bucky groans, “Natasha he’s in high school.”

“So are you.”

“But Tasha he’s a Table Hijacker.”

“Oh, Clint told me about this. You’re ridiculous.”

“Whatever,” Bucky mutters. It was a serious deal to him, but none of his so called friends seemed to understand that. It’s like they don’t even care about his sanity. Bucky bit his tongue slightly, chewing on it in thought for a moment before speaking again, “I-I can’t go. It’s Tony… I can’t go.”

“He told me to invite you,” Natasha softens her voice. “He wants to see you.”

“He’ll see me in class,” Bucky points out, and he can’t help the way it sounds like a pout.

“Bucky,” Natasha chides with an eye roll. “You’re going, and I’m sure if you ask nicely Clint will go with you, and get you very stoned before.”

“Whatever,” Bucky says again. “Stark tries anything I’ll punch him again.”

Natasha lets out another one of her high pitched hums, “That was classic.”

Bucky and Natasha manage to sneak in the snake kit through the backdoor. It’ll be fine for now, at least until Bucky’s mom barges into his room without knocking. He gives it a day or two.

Bucky finds himself sitting under his tree again the next day picking at the grass and sticking his fingers in the dirt. Steve is sitting at his table again, his friend isn’t there again. Now that Bucky has a mission that involves telling Birdguy about the party, it just becomes increasingly annoying that Steve is sitting alone. Yesterday, it was just kind of sad, but today is a different story, and Bucky is fucking annoyed.

He’s angrily mumbling at the grass he’s plucking from the ground when he becomes aware of a shadow over him. Looking up he startles himself when he comes face to face with the Marilyn Manson, Trent Reznor, who the fuck cares, Loki guy. Loki lets out a low creepy chuckle when Bucky jumps a little, at his presence. _Fucking creep._

“What do you want?” Bucky snaps.

“Can I sit?” Loki gestures to the ground beside Bucky, already preparing himself to sit next to him.

“No,” Loki looks perplexed for a moment, obviously not expecting that response. Bucky has to hold back a spiteful chuckle, he doesn’t want to be too cruel yet he has no clue what the Hot Topic prototype wants. “You can stand.”

“Why are you staring at Steve Rogers?” Loki asks his voice amused, but the way he glints his eyes and gives Bucky a nod of the head tells him somehow he already knows. Bucky must show his surprised confusion in his face because the boy continues. “You think I didn’t notice how you sat at that table every single day at lunch last year. I’ve been watching, James. There are things I know. One of those things, is how you can get back, at Steve Rogers Table Hijacker.”

It’s the third day of school, and Bucky already has a stalker on his hands. He’s going to have to get a restraining order, he is dead serious going to have to get a restraining order from a lanky greasy haired sophomore. It’s not balls shriveling back into you kind of fear, but is enough for the hair on the back of his neck to stand up, because how in the hell did he know about Steve Rogers being called, so fondly, Table Hijacker by Bucky.

“How do you know about that?” Bucky asks voice strained. He’s trying not to show his fear, he’s even considering bearing his teeth, but he would just feel like some kind of yappy fluffy dog if he did that. _Emotionless, Barnes that’s the way to go._

“What? You think you’re the only one with ears at Burger King?” Loki smirks coyly.

Bucky has to think for a while, in a silent contemplation. His next words have to be chosen very carefully, because he does not want to say the wrong thing, and give this guy any ideas that he might care he’s stalking him. That would just add too much fuel to the fire, an unnecessary fire that should not have ever even been ignited. He looks up at the twerp, chin jutted out, “What’s in it for you?”

“I help you with your Steve Rogers problem,” Loki nods towards Steve who is absentmindedly picking at a rather sad droopy looking sandwich. “And you get me into Stark’s party on Saturday.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him, before leaning his head back hair falling behind him, and soaking in the sun. He sighs out a bland emotionless, “Sure, whatever.”

Loki drums his long bony fingers together, “Exciting.”

Bucky just nods, and Loki continues in a higher pitched voice, and Bucky can’t help but smirk because the kid was so obviously forcing his voice into a lower tone when talking with Bucky, “I’ll be by here tomorrow, same time, with the plans.”

“Whatever.”

The air felt old and stale inside of the art classroom, the fluorescent lights were dull and blinking and giving Bucky a fucking headache. He kept feeling like he had to look over his shoulder the whole day to make sure Loki wasn’t getting ready to hit him with a poisoned dart or something. It was exhausting he couldn’t wait for the day to be over. All he had left to endure was this fucking art class. He was pretty sure this class was going to kill him before the bell even rang.

He was resting his head on the table, borrowed in his folded arms, and eyes closed tightly. He was just going to try and sleep through the class, since his vow to not skip any classes during the first week still stood. Otherwise, he would have been smoking in the bathroom, or some other kind of cliché.

Bucky looked up resting his chin on his arms, when he heard the chair next to him scrape the ground. He kept his eyes half lidded hoping that whoever was sitting next to him wasn’t one of those annoying chirpy girls that always wanted to talk to him.

“Hi, Bucky,” And, no that voice was definitely too deep to be a girl. It was actually a recognizable voice, if not more soothing than it usually is and missing that familiar snap. Steve was sitting on his stool his feet didn’t even touch the ground, and he just swung his legs like a child scribbling in his sketch book, bringing his hand up to push his glasses up his nose every so often.

Bucky huffed, and grumbled and burrowed his head back in his arms. They sat in silence for the rest of the class, and Bucky felt Steve’s presence the entire time, but he never once felt uncomfortable. In fact, he even enjoyed the warmth Steve emulated on him.

When the bell rang Bucky stood up his hair mused, and his right side of the face red from where it rested on his sleeve. Steve just smiled at him, putting his sketch book back in his backpack.

“You snore,” Steve says before turning to walk out the door.

“Fuck you,” Bucky muttered throwing his own backpack over his shoulder. He feels the familiar itching of a smile wanting to etch itself across his face, but he ignores the urge and just scowls harder than usual. He watches Steve’s small form weaving between bodies maneuvering his way out of the nightmare that is the hallway after the bell. He has a feisty jolt in his step, and looks about ready to push over anyone in his way. Bucky smiles to himself, and thinks he could be friends with Steve Rogers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't get me started about fucking burger king


	3. There's Some Baseball and a Grandma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not getting on that, that thing with you,” Buck groans. Clint was standing in the parking lot next to a blue barely “street legal” scooter.  
> “Someone stole my car this is all I have.”   
> “Clint.”  
> “Do you wanna go to Burger King or nah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can u say filler?? cause i can and that's what this is  
> thnks m8

“I’m not getting on that, that thing with you,” Buck groans. Clint was standing in the parking lot next to a blue barely “street legal” scooter.

“Someone stole my car this is all I have.”

“Clint.”

“Do you wanna go to Burger King or nah?”

“How did you manage to get your car stolen in the first place, dumbass?” Bucky sulked. He didn’t want to ride on Clint’s dumb scooter, but it was his only mode of transportation at the moment. It was ride on the back of the dumb fucking scooter, or walk in the fucking heat in his all black get up. Both options sucked, now he just had to figure out which one was worse.

“I don’t know man, it’s just one day it was there and the next day it wasn’t,” Clint explains, like it’s the craziest thing. Bucky is so certain he’s high, and probably shouldn’t be operating any kind of heavy machinery, scooters and Burger King soda fountains included.

Bucky grumbled out incoherent curses at Clint and kicked the scooter onto the ground.

“Aw scooter no,” Clint cried rushing to his knees and stroking it like a wounded dog.

Bucky lit up a cigarette holding it to his lips sucking in the smoke deep into his lungs. He’d gotten used to the pressured itchy feeling in his lungs that had once made him cough, and was now a pro. Not that it’s something he should be proud of, it’s a nasty habit and he knows, but he doesn’t fucking care.

Though smoking in front of the school, on its property was definitely not one of Bucky’s brightest moments. Especially not with Clint’s scooter laying on the concrete in the parking lot next to the Vice Principal’s car. She was striding out of the school now red high heels click clacking on asphalt.

“Mr. Barnes that better not be a cigarette between your lips,” Her shrill demanding voice called out, as she moved closer to her vehicle.

“Shit, shit Clint we gotta go,” Bucky ushered Clint to his feet. “Pick the damn scooter up we gotta get outta here.”

“Sure now he appreciates you,” Clint mutters closely to the scooter like he’s trying to whisper in its ear.

Vaguely, in the near distance he could hear the woman’s shrill calls of, “Mr. Barnes put out that cigarette.” And other reprimands of the likes. Maybe it would have been smarter to put out the cigarette, but he was young and not eighteen yet, and broke, and buying cigarettes was fucking hard okay? He had to make sure each one counted, and he barely got to suck on this one at all. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be putting it out not. Escaping was the only viable solution at this point. If only Clint would hurry the fuck up.

A speedy, well not so speedy, get away pressed against Clint on his dinky fucking scooter was not what Bucky had wanted today. His head still fucking hurt, but the adrenaline of almost getting caught helped relieve it a little. _Fucking juvenile._

While easing down the highway wind blowing his hair into his mouth, the thought that he knew the bandit who had stolen Clint’s car did occur to him. And while riding Clint’s scooter was the equivalent to being in hell for him, telling Clint Natasha had stolen his car would take away all the satisfaction of seeing Clint’s reaction when he actually finds out. Some things come out a great price, and this just happened to be one of them. Bucky was strong though, if he could endure his parents he could endure one ride on Clint’s scooter. He has never in his life been happier to see a fucking Burger King in his life.

Passed out in a pile of fries, was what Bucky was currently doing on display on Clint’s Snapchat story. Clint captioned it, ‘why pick fries before guys when you can have both??’ He was woken up by his phone ringing obnoxiously in his pocket. He picked his head up, a French fry stuck to his cheek, and eyes blurred with sleep. In his sleep dazed state he didn’t even look at who was calling before answering.

“’Ello?”

“James where are you?” It was his mother. He groaned into the phone, and his mother snapped at him. The world was out to get him today, first the vice principal and now his mother. He couldn’t catch a break, and though the grease battered French fry pillowed nap did help alleviate the sharp piercing pain behind his eyes, there was still a fierce uncomfortable throb running throughout his skull.

“I’m with Clint,” He answered.

He heard his mother sigh long and exasperatedly, he could practically see her rubbing her temples with her index and middle fingers, “James your grandparents are coming over for dinner. Did you forget? We talked about this last night.”

Bucky doesn’t remember this conversation, but that wasn’t unusual for him. He usually took the liberty of ignoring the woman when she battered on about this and that and book club. God, if he never has to hear about book club again he could die a happy man. He did understand the importance of not being a complete shit of a son on this night, though. His mom always aimed to please his father’s parents seeing as his grandad fucking hated her. Apparently his mother’s father and his dad’s father had a falling out over a merger of companies, and his father’s dad had tried everything in his power to stop his dad from marrying his mom. His dad was a headstrong stubborn asshole though, since birth apparently (it’s comforting to know that Bucky wasn’t actually the cause of his father’s detest for just about everything) and married her anyways. Bucky suspects he married her more out of spite then love. So, yeah when his grandparents stopped by his mother went fucking all out to impress them, and here he was French fry grease slathered across his face, and fucking late.

“Clint,” Bucky hissed flailing his arms about trying to get the other man’s attention.

 “Not now Bucky,” Clint groaned, he was trying to mop up a puddle of spilt milk some misbehaving toddler had thrown across the restaurant.

“Clint I needed to get home, like ten minutes ago.”

Clint just took his mop and tried to slap Bucky on the back of the head with it, but being ever nimble Bucky dodged the attack and ran out of the building. He was fucked, it was as simple as that. Natasha was at ballet so he couldn’t call her to come pick him up so he had no way to get home if Clint couldn’t take him. Unless…

                This was the absolute last thing Bucky wanted to do, but he was at an absolute loss. He needed to get home, and if he had to stoop this low to get there then so be it. But he wasn’t going to go down happy that’s for sure.

                “Hey, Stark,” Bucky murmured bitterly into his phone. “I need your help.”

                Fifteen minutes later Tony speeds up nearly hitting the curb in his Audi, and Bucky was very close to jumping in front of him and letting him run over him with his fucking luxury custom leather seats car. What a way to go. He refrains, because he has not fallen completely into the depths of despair. Not yet that is, after this ride though he may regret not letting Tony roll over him.

                It seemed the regret came sooner than the end of the ride, more like at the very beginning. Once Bucky opened the door, in fact, because that is when Tony fucking Stark, with his patched up nose that was purple around the edges only just beginning to yellow, decided to open his God damn mouth, “Ah, they always come crawling back.”

                “I will punch you again. In the fucking nose, Stark. Doesn’t look healed to me at all so you might want to shut your fucking mouth,” Bucky snapped, his voice teetering on the edge of a growl.

                “When’s the last time you washed that hair of yours, Buck?” Tony reached a hand over to rustle through Bucky’s hair, but Bucky smacked it away quickly causing Tony to swerve the car slightly. While he had a valid point, his hair was hanging heavy covered and grease and dirt from being neglected, the fact that Stark just had to point it out was fucking annoying.

                “Both hands on the wheel, asshole.”

                “Well, since we are so high and mighty about driver safety all of a sudden I’d advise you put your seatbelt on.”

                “Fuck you, Stark.”

                “Wow, that is real mature of you, and here I thought you had a crush on me. What ever happened to romance, Bucky?”

                “Don’t, don’t patronize me Tony,” Bucky attempted to growl, but his voice was strained and he really had to force it out, so it came out more like a garbled whisper.

                “Oh, I just love it when you say my name.”

                “What the fuck is your problem?” Bucky barked, his face red from frustration, and unintentionally holding his breath. Somewhere inside of him he was hoping he’d just pass out. Being unconscious was one thousand times more pleasant than being in Stark’s presence.

                “So, Natasha told me you’ll be coming to my party Saturday,” Tony evades smacking his lips together as he does.

                “Yeah,” Bucky answers begrudgingly. “Turn here.”

                “Gated community, how bougie. What’s the code?” Tony pulled up to the gate, and rolled his window down. Buck relayed the four digit code, keeping his voice low, and annoyed. His head hadn’t stopped throbbing, in fact the pain had been increasing the whole time, and now it was getting to the point where he couldn’t ignore it anymore. He let out an audible groan, and slumped in his seat.

                “You okay Bucky?” Tony question, with what sounded like actual concern in his voice.

                “Just headache.”

                “I think there’s something in the glove box you can take,” Tony gestures.

                He fished around in the glove compartment looking for a plastic bottle or a cardboard packet of pain killers instead he found a white rolled up joint.

                “Tony this is a joint.”

                “It’s completely medicinal.”

                “That’s not even legal here. Don’t you have some Tylenol or something?”

                “You need a light?”

                “No,” Bucky muttered grumpily as he fished his lighter out of the pocket of his bleach stained black jeans. He lit up the joint and took a hit. He laughs around the joint bitter, and full of acid, “Just fucking great. This is fan-fucking-tastic. No better way to make your parents proud, and impress your father’s parents then coming to dinner late, and smelling of weed. Take a right.”

                “You want me to come with, I mean I missed your party I never even got to meet the rents,” Tony offers. When Bucky just scowls at him he adds on, “I do know a thing or two about disappointing the parents. Remember I got the world record.”

                Bucky smiles at that, despite his entire being telling him not to. He blames the weed, it’s totally the drugs talking not him, “I think I’m catching up on you, though. My house is the one at the end right there, on the left.”

                “Hm, not too shabby. Dutch Colonial?”

                “I don’t fucking know.”

                Tony pulled up and parked beside the house, “Well gotta go disappoint the parents. Keep em alive a little longer and you might even be able to pass me for the world record.”

                “Tony,” Bucky says his name so softly, he isn’t even sure he uttered it and didn’t just think it. He had known Tony’s parents had died a few years ago, Tony was never too into sharing the details of it all, but he had never actually had a real discussion with Tony about it. Everything he knows about Tony’s parent’s passing was told in drunken cynical comments. “I’m not high enough for this.”

                Tony chuckles at that and shakes his head a little, and Bucky wonders what Tony was thinking about, though he has a pretty good guess. Bucky bites at his lower lip, “Tony.”

                “I’ve heard it all, Bucky. There’s no need,” Tony puts a hand up in a ‘stop’ gesture, and gave a good natured smile, but Bucky didn’t miss the slight frown that threatened to show before Tony pulled the sides of his lips up.

                Bucky just snorted in an attempt to play off of Tony’s easy, albeit forced, demeanor, “At least you’re fucking loaded now.”

                “Ah, yes the bright side. Always enough money for booze, and drugs. So, I guess you could say I’m fucking loaded in more than one sense of the word.”

                The incredulous scoff that came out of Bucky’s mouth was to be expected. It’s not that he didn’t believe Tony, it’s just he knew the guy always had a flair for the dramatic, and making things seem worse than they actually were. Perhaps, he only did that so when things were actually bad no one would believe him. Bucky knew a thing or two about doing that.

                “Now all you’re missing is the gun,” Bucky smirked.

                “We could make like the Menendez Brothers, but then it’d be weird when I tried to kiss ya,” Tony made a loud wet kiss noise at Bucky. Which, of course only cause Bucky’s skin to crawl both out of want, and disgust. Tony fucking Stark was the literal spawn of the devil’s inbred cousin.

                “Go to hell, Stark,” Bucky spat, his voice wavering, despite how fucking hard he tried to keep it steady and tough. He flung the door open, and stopped through the grass in his front yard making his feet dig deep into the soft soil and tear up the garden.

                He flung the front door open in a dramatic flash of teenage anger. It hit the wall with a loud bang, knocking a picture off of the wall. It was an ugly painting of disgustingly mustard yellow flowers in a shit brown vase. He heard his moth stomping in, her heels tapping in a way that made his stomach churn. She appeared before him, like an angel in appearance, but looks can be deceiving in a way that is just too cruel. Her hair was curled softly at her shoulders, and she wore an ankle length red dress. Her face was pinched tightly like she was sucking on a lemon.

                “James, where on God’s earth have you been, young man?” His mother snapped through a clenched jaw. “God, you look like a homeless heroin addict. You are the most inconsiderate selfish brat sometimes James. Honestly, I don’t know what went wrong.”

                “Ma,” His voice was soft, but there was silent anger bubbling up inside of him. The irony of him being the selfish one, of him being the inconsiderate one almost made a choked laugh tickled in his throat. He wonders how she can’t see what went wrong, because he was fairly certain she had to have looked in the mirror since he turned twelve.

                “Don’t even, James. I do not have time for any of your excuses. Go wash your hands, and go to the dinner table. Your grandparents are already here,” She curtly nodded her head, and stomped her foot down before turning and walking out of the room. He was sure her fake hospitable smile had returned to her lips.

                Eyes were burning holes in him, as he stuffed large forkfuls of salmon into his mouth. He was well aware he was eating like a madman, but he was fucking hungry so lay off. Stunned silence at the rapid pace he was consuming the dish with was better than the awful small talk his mother was attempting.

                “James,” His mother snapped. “Your grandfather asked you a question.”

                He swallowed the wad of peas in his mouth, he didn’t even like peas that’s how hungry he was, and looked up at his grandfather who was peering at him with a frown.

                “I’m sorry, sir. What did you say?” He tried his best to sound polite he really did, but the way his grandmother snickered beside him proved he probably came off a bit more sassy then was wanted. His grandmother’s bony fingers rested over his thigh and pinched at the skin in a playful warning.

                The thing about Bucky’s grandmother was that she was perhaps his favorite person on earth, and has always been. She loves to remind his mother that there was a phase he went through when he was eight months old where he referred to her as mama instead of his own mother. His grandmother was the only person in the entire fucking family who seemed to even give him a lick of compassion, which is funny because she was probably one of the coldest people he knew. Natasha reminded him of her greatly, and is one reason he latched onto that friendship so quickly.

                His grandmother married his grandfather in the fall of 1972 she was twenty-two years old, and admittedly only in it for the money. His grandfather having already inherited an estate in upstate New York, and beginning the process of taking over his father’s law firm. And Bucky’s own father was born the next year in 1973, further cementing her marriage to his grandfather. She likes to assure him that the only reason she even cares about him is because she really fucked it up with his father by being an absentee mom, but he knows it’s more than just guilt motivating her. She cares, even if she doesn’t want to act like she does.

Ever since his parents had forced this awful move on him he hasn’t been able to see his dear grandmother as much as he used to, and he almost forgot how nice it was to have her presence near.

His grandfather cleared his throat, and pursued his lips before speaking, “I asked if you had put in any thought as to where you want to go to college.”

Bucky smiled, because he had and he was really excited for it too, “Yeah! Uh, yes sir. I’m gonna apply to MIT.”

His father and grandfather shared an unimpressive look between the two. His grandfather narrowed his eyes and shook his head. His grandmother patted his thigh under the table and told him, “That’s a good school, young man. What makes you think you can get in?”

Bucky chuckled and sighed, “Grandma.”

She pinched him again and then patted his cheek, “You know I’m just joshin’ ya. You’re a bright boy, you’ll do good.”

“Thanks,” Bucky muttered, a blush rising to his cheeks.

“While MIT may be a good school, what exactly do you think you’ll be accomplishing there?” His grandfather had a low booming voice that just seemed to echo no matter how loud he was talking. It could completely take over a room and was intimidating no matter what words he was spouting.

“Uh,” Bucky started a little stunned. “I wanna go into robotics.”

“Nonsense!” His grandfather shouted, it wasn’t a loud shout, but it was enough to send Bucky flinching against the back of his chair.

“Jim,” His grandmother scolded glaring at the older man.

“Son,” His dad said. “We talked about this. Your grandfather is a Harvard man, and so am I. You’re going to Harvard, you’re going to study law, and you’re going to take over the firm. We discussed this, and I thought I made myself very clear.”

Bucky clenched his jaw and ran his teeth over his lip. He wanted to roll his eyes, but his mother was glaring at him, and he wasn’t in the mood to be slapped in the fucking face. He tried to keep his voice as even as possible when he spoke, “You did make yourself clear, Father. However, I thought I made myself even clearer when I told you there was no way in hell I was going to take over your law firm.”

“James!” His mother scolded.

“Ma!” He shouted back mimicking her tone.

“Clearly,” His grandfather said through gritted teeth. “There are somethings your father and I need to discuss. Son, why don’t we retire to the study?”

The two men left. Leaving only Bucky, fuming in his seat, his mother glaring at him, and his grandmother trying her best to comfort him.

“James,” His mother started, with a clipped tone.

His grandmother, God bless her, cut his mother off with a smile and a hand on his shoulder, “I think I’m going to take James to the garden to talk. Alone.”

The night air was muggy and warm and made him sweat uncomfortably. He hated it. The stars were shinning and he squinted up at them trying to find the constellations, but the stupid twinkling lights all blended into each other and started to look more like one white blob than separate white blobs.

“You’re high,” His grandmother stated giving him one look over, before her eyes met his.

He stood there a little slacked jaw, before nodding his head slowly. There was no use lying to this woman, she could read him like a fucking book and would know he was lying before he even did. She isn’t mad though, she just laughs and tips up her glass of wine she had taken out up to him.

“Now let me tell you Jamie,” His grandmother starts. “You don’t let those two men tell you how to live your life, trust me I’ve spent too many years listenin’ to them yap on and on…”

She continues her speech, but he isn’t really listening. He appreciates her, and the fact that she believes in him enough to basically force him to go to MIT at this point. He’s pretty sure if he even set foot in Harvard, or anywhere else that isn’t MIT she would start swinging at him with her purse full of hard candy. The hard candy, not there because she old, but because she’s quitting smoking. She’s always “quitting” smoking, but that afternoon cigarette begs to differ. His head is in a different place, and maybe it’s because he’s high or fucking angry, but he cuts her off.

“Grandma, I’m gay.” _Fuck._

She immediately pauses, and looks at him with a straight face showing no emotion at all. He feels his fingers twitching against his jeans, and his heart beating in quick recession against his chest. A loud _thump thump thump_ that he can hear inside his ears. His eyes well up and the tears begin to fall. His grandmother takes him by the cheeks and holds his head up so he’s looking up at her through blurry eyes.

“Oh, honey,” She says her voice soft but stern. He’s trying to even out his breathing to keep from crying even harder, but it’s a frivolous act and the tears find their way down his face. “You’re gay and you’re going to MIT.”

She pulls him into a hug, and he’s laughing wetly as he accepts her skinny arms around his waist. He cries into the crook of her neck, out of pure relief that she accepts him for who he is. She pushes him away and gives him a stern look, “You tell me.”

He runs a shaky hand through his greasy hair, and nods nervously, “I’m gay and I’m going to MIT.”

He repeats it like a mantra each time his mood increasing becoming more confident until he’s finally smiling. He sighs contently, and looks towards the stars. They’re stupid, but not as stupid as they used to be. “I’m gay and I’m going to MIT!” He yells up at them.

His grandmother laughs, and brings him into a joyful hug. When she pulls away she sighs and says, “I need a fucking cigarette.” Bucky laughs and nods in agreement. He pulls the pack out of his pocket, along with his lighter and him and his grandmother blow smoke into the night sky.

“You honestly think this will work?” Bucky asks from his spot under his tree. The sun is beating down extra brutally, and Bucky is praying for fucking October already. September is being too cruel this year for his all black attire (it’s not a fucking statement just his aesthetic.)

Loki is relaying his plans of exacting vengeance against Steve Rogers Table Hijacker, whom Bucky is glaring at. Though, it probably looks more like he’s squinting from the fucking sun that is right in his fucking face.

Loki smiles, creepy like a slinky serpent, and nods his head, “Yes, it’s full proof. No one will even know I was there.”

“What about the cameras?” Bucky questions. There were security cameras in the hallways, and he was certain Loki would be in full view of them when acting out his plan.

“Those won’t be a problem,” Loki assures him menacingly. Bucky shuttered slightly, but ultimately shrugged him off, because as long as it didn’t involve him he could care fuck all what happened to the fucking kid.

“And his stuff?” Bucky asks.

“Don’t worry about it, Barnes.”

Bucky just rolled his eyes, and continued glaring at Steve Rogers as he sat at the picnic table his head and hair fanning over his forehead. He was eating a fucking plastic bowl of applesauce, more like staring at deeply like it was the love of his life, and stirring it with a red plastic spoon, but Bucky thought it was equally the most pathetic and for a moment he almost felt a little bad about it, but Steve Rogers was a menace, he was the bane of his very existence, and he deserved this revenge. He deserved it. He was a Table Hijacker.

The plan was to go down on Friday before last period, and though Bucky was weary he knew it was something he had to do. Sure, it was petty and ridiculously over the top (and Steve Rogers already looked pathetic as he hate fucking applesauce.) He couldn’t dwell on those things however, as he knew Steve Rogers was a Table Hijacker, and decided to take his fucking table. It was ridiculous.

He mulled over the wispy blond haired boy who starred deep into his applesauce until he plopped down onto his stool in art class, and saw Steve Rogers Table Hijacker glaring down at a paper on his desk. He had a line between his eyebrows, and his cheeks puffed up. His eyes watered a little and the kid looked like he was about to fucking cry. Bucky groaned and pushed himself up from his stool and made his way over to the boy.

“Rogers,” He grunted as he sat down beside the smaller boy.

“Oh,” Steve squeaked sadly looking up from the paper. “Hi, Bucky.”

“What’s wrong?” Bucky questioned trying to keep his voice void of emotion, but his genuine worry over the other boy seemed to seep out of his voice, and Steve seemed to catch onto that giving him a sad smile and motioning to the paper.

                On the table was a math test, it was Steve’s and it was not good. Written on the paper in tacky red pen was a giant 59% a F. Bucky was used to purposefully getting Fs on his papers, and he was so far removed from it that he could never find himself getting too upset over the bad marks, but Steve fucking Steve looked completely wrecked over it.

                “I just don’t understand,” Steve moped burying his head in his hands. “I studied really hard and everything.”

                “Hey, I could help if you want,” Bucky offered lamely. “I’m kinda okay at this shit.”

                Steve growled at the paper, like a rabid Chihuahua, literally bared his teeth and snapped at it. Bucky had to swallow a laugh, as he watched the boy yapping at the test. He picked it up in his long bony fingers and crumpled it up into a tortured looking ball. He threw it angrily onto the ground, and then all but slammed his forehead onto the cool surface of the black table.

                “I give up,” Steve whined miserably. “I can’t even pass the Algebra 2 review, how am I ever going to pass Pre-Calc?”

                Bucky huffed out another sigh, and leant down to pick up the crumpled paper, “Well, crumpling it up ain’t gonna help.”

                “Nothin’s gonna help.”

                “Shut the fuck up,” Bucky snapped. “I said I will.”

                Steve just whined a high pitched pitiful noise, and suddenly Bucky understood why he was being all mopey looking into his applesauce. He slumped so far onto the edge of his seat sliding down dramatically he fell off the stool and hit his chin on the edge of the table.

                Instead of groaning in pain, or getting up and trying to play it cool, like a normal fucking person, he just accepts his place on the floor and lays there continuing his high pitched whining noise, and adding a, “I’m just gonna lay here until I die.”

                 Bucky just looks down at him with a blank face, and shakes his head slightly. He tries to straighten out the crumpled paper, but it looked like it had gone through the garbage disposable, like damn how strong was this noodle armed kid? He then went to work on correcting all the problems Steve did wrong, leaving pretty detailed instructions on how to complete them.

                Mr. S raised an eyebrow at Steve wallowing on the floor and Steve just said in a complete deadpan, “It’s performance art.” Which, seemed to suffice enough for Mr. S who just nodded his head and continued sipping his coffee at his desk.

                The problems weren’t that hard, and it was easy to see Steve’s mistakes. This made it easy for Bucky to correct the paper, and draw a few crude dicks on it, because he’s nice but not that nice. He has a reputation to uphold okay.

                “You suck at math,” Bucky grumbles as he does the calculations in his head.

                Steve just whines again, and rolls around on the floor like a drunken toddler, “It’s Mr. Pierce he hates me, I swear.”

                Bucky snorts, “Yeah probably, it’s kids like you who make his job harder. I bet you’re one of those kids who isn’t afraid to ask an ass load of questions during class, too.”

                Steve scoffs, but Bucky glances over his shoulder just in time to see a pink blush encapsulate Steve’s pale skin. Yup, called it. That fact just gives Bucky more reason to thoroughly dislike Steve Rogers, besides the obvious table hijacking reasons, because kids who ask a billion fucking questions and slow down the lesson for everyone else are the fucking worst.

                “At least I don’t distract the entire class by breathing so loud no one can hear anything,” Steve shoots back, a defiant line between his eyebrows, but his embarrassed blush is still ever present on the swell of his puffed up cheeks.

                “I don’t breathe that loud!” Bucky gripes.

                Steve just scoffs again, and rolls his fucking eyes that bastard. They let an angry, yet companionable silence over take them. Bucky tries to focus on quieting his breathing, and just ends up holding his breath until he’s blue in the face and a little dizzy in the head. Steve lets out a small snort of a laugh when Bucky finally chokes on oxygen letting the color restore to his face.

                “Here’s your fucking math test,” Bucky mutters throwing the paper down on the floor beside Steve. “I corrected it.”

                “Bucky, thanks, but you didn’t have to-“

                Steve’s thanks are cut off by a low guttural growl from Bucky, “Someone had to. You’re like really bad at math, like you fucking suck-“

                “Wow, stop the flattery really it’s too much,” Steve says dryly.

                “I’m just saying,” Bucky grits out. “If you ever need any help just ask me.”

                “Thanks,” Steve whispers.

                “Also, tell your friend Sam to be at Tony Stark’s party on Saturday starts at nine, but if he’s there before ten he’ll be fucking booted, okay? It’s not fucking cool,” Bucky informs Steve, loving the way Steve’s eyes go all wide and surprised.

                “Tony Stark?” Steve questions, his voice full of wonder. _The great almighty Tony fucking Stark_ Bucky thinks bitterly.

                “Tell him Natasha wants to see him there.”

                Steve just nods, and continues whispering Tony’s name like it’s a sacred chant.

                “You can come too, if you want,” Bucky mumbles, hoping Steve won’t hear him or understand him.

                Unfortunately Steve does understand him, and his eyes go even wider, if that’s even possible. His lips part a little, and he stands up so he can loom over Bucky. Even though, it’s more like looming over Bucky’s shoulder, as even with Bucky sitting Steve’s still too short to see the top of his head. The stool was rather tall, he’ll give him that.

                “For serious?” Steve asks in an astonished hushed voice.

                Bucky groans out a sigh, and forces his head to nod, “Just don’t wear that it’s not fucking cool.”

                Steve gives him an incredulous look and looks down at his button up, khakis, and boat shoes.

                “Just trust me, punk.”

                The bell rings, thank the fucking Lord and Bucky grabs his backpack getting ready to bolt when he’s stopped by Steve’s pleasant yet slightly wheezy, “See you tomorrow Bucky.”

He just gives a short nod, and a little grunt before making his way to the door almost missing fucking Jessica’s envious, “Did you just get invited to Tony Stark’s party by Bucky Barnes?”

                And Steve’s even wheezier, “I think so.”

                The sun was setting low in the sky, casting an orange dull glow over the empty field Bucky and Clint were occupying. Clint had his car parked in the center of the field, grass destroyed from skidding across it recklessly. At Bucky’s feet was a crate of bruised rotting apples, and across the field from him was Clint with a baseball bat.

                “Batters up bitches!” Clint shouts taking a few practice swings, the bat swooshing through the air clumsily, as Clint lost his balance from the sheer force of his swing.

                “Well, I think it’s safe to assume you’ll never be playing for the Mets anytime soon,” Bucky snorts.

                “The Mets suck.”

                “I know,” Bucky teases with a waggle of his eyebrows. “But if it’s any consolation they have been playin’ better as of late. Ya know World Series an’ all. I mean they still lost.”

                “Fuck off Barnes. You think I got this bat to play baseball with?” Clint questions. “Cause I didn’t I got it to scare off burglars, and cosplay as Harley Quinn.”

                “Harley Quinn?”

                “You gotta problem?” Clint asks. “Cause I got a fuckin’ bat, and I’ll pummel your ass to shit.”

                “There’s gotta be someone cooler who uses a fuckin’ bat,” Bucky insists. “Like that one guy, from that one thing. You know what I mean? He’s got a bat.”

                “Throw the goddamn fruit Barnes,” Clint grumbles.

                “Yessir,” Bucky laughs before going into a nice windup. Clint swings at the apple as it buzzes through the air, missing completely.

 “Look at that curve ball, Barton,” Bucky whistles. “Or did ya’ miss it, cause it was going too fast? Thought you were deaf, not blind.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint rolls his eyes. “Just underhand that shit.”

“Underhand? What is this softball?”

“Don’t fucking disrespect softball, Bucky,” Clint hisses. “I’ve seen the Sandlot 2.”

Bucky tosses it in a rainbow curve, and Clint whacks the fruit with the bat sending mushy chunks into the air, and all over the front of his t-shirt.

“Ugh, gnarly,” Clint grunts as he wipes the front of his shirt, only to smear the brown apple mush all over himself.

“Whose idea was this again?” Bucky asks.

Clint walks up to him bat resting on his shoulder. There’s smears of apple on his face, and dripping off the bat. Bucky ducks his head, and swallows roughly.

“I told my grandma,” He says.

“What the fuck? We promised we wouldn’t tell anyone about that,” Clint pushes at him.

“What?” Bucky asks confused. “What are you talking about? I told her I was gay.”

“So, you didn’t tell her about that time in Atlantic City when I got arrested after starting a fight when I propositioned a mob boss for sex?”

“What? No, why would I tell my grandmother about that?”

“I don’t know, but you seemed nervous and we don’t have any other secrets so that’s what I thought,” Clint explains, and when Bucky pulls a face at him he smears the apple mush onto Bucky’s cheek. “In my defense I was-“

“Really drunk and he looked a lot like a female with the long hair and those cheekbones yeah I know,” Bucky finishes for him. “You know I thought I was the one with a bad case of internalized homophobia.”

“Sexuality is a spectrum,” Clint fires back goodheartedly.

“Call me back when you actually believe that,” Bucky says.

“Look alive ladies!” A female voice shouts, spooking the both of them. In fact, spooking Clint so much he turns around bat swinging hitting Bucky right on the side of the face.

“Natasha! You she devil you stole my fucking car!” Clint shouts, waving his bat wildly, as Natasha saunters over. The duo ignoring Bucky who was writhing in the dirt in pain.

“Calm down Kevin Matchstick,” Natasha grumbles as she confiscates the bat from Clint’s hands.

“Kevin Matchstick!” Bucky shouts, and then groans in pain clutching his cheek. “That’s who I was talking about earlier. The guy with the bat.”

“You literally couldn’t have been vaguer, dude,” Clint says.

Natasha crouches down beside Bucky removing his hand from his cheek and examining the bruise that was forming in its place. “You really did a number there, Clint,” She says, as she pats the purpling spot causing Bucky to hiss in pain. “No crying in baseball, Madonna.”

“We’re playing softball,” Bucky says a bit disdainfully.

“Don’t disrespect softball, Barnes,” Natasha says. “I’ve seen the Sandlot 2.”

Bucky just groans.

Bucky trudges into his house covered in apple mush, and face pounding from the beating Clint gave him with the bat. His mother seems to always have this sixth sense about her, and can always detect when he’s walking through the door.

“Where have you been Ja-“ She cuts herself off, and walks up to him clutching his chin and tilting his head to the side to get a better look at the bruise on his cheek. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Bucky grumbles tugging away from her grip.  
               

“It sure doesn’t look like nothing, James.”

“Got in a fight with my drug dealer, Ma. No big deal,” He explains dryly.

“James Buchanan be honest with me,” His mother scolds, her arms planted firmly across her chest.

“Fight club?” Bucky says.

“James,” His mother chides.

“First rule!” His grandmother shouts at the same time.

“Grandma,” Bucky smiles, having just noticed the other woman was sitting in the living room a cup of tea in her hand.

“I should see the other guy right?” His grandmother teases.

“Had ‘em on the ropes,” Bucky says.

“James,” His mother scolds.

“It’s fine, Ma. Clint hit me with a baseball bat,” He admits, and immediately regrets it when his mother’s eyes light up.

“You were playing baseball?” She asks.

“Ugh,” Bucky groans.

“C’mon Jamie,” His grandmother, bless her fucking heart stands up and walks over to him. She wraps a skinny arm around his waist and leads him out of the room. She turns to his mother and tells herm “We’ve got grandparent - grandkid things to discuss. Like my funeral.”

“Suck any dicks lately?” His grandmother asks once they’ve settled in his bedroom.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky gapes. “It was yesterday woman!”

“Well, I know how teenage boys were when I was young. Randy as all get out.”

Bucky fished out his cigarettes, and lit one up. His grandmother tisked at him, and held out two fingers for him to put the cigarette between.

“You shouldn’t be smoking, young man,” She chides, as she takes a puff of his cigarette. “Nope, Jamie don’t give me that face. I’m not giving this back to you. I’m protecting you. You need to save those lungs.”

“Gross, Grandma,” Bucky groans, at her suggestive waggling of the eyebrows.

“I can smoke all I want. Jim fired the pool boy so I got no one waiting for me,” She laughs, inhaling more smoke.

“The pool boy really?” Bucky asks. “That’s so cliché, Grandma.”

“You say that now, but you didn’t see those abs.”

“Grandma,” Bucky whines flopping down on his bed, covering his face in his pillow.

“Your room is an absolute pigsty Jamie,” His grandmother groans, as she picks up handfuls of clothes and separates them into different piles. She picks up a t-shirt that was hiding Reese’s habitat, and looks at it with a raised eyebrow. “Is that a snake?”

“Reese Slitherspoon,” Bucky tells her.

“Well, who named it that?” She asks. Bucky squawks indignantly and she shakes her head, “Don’t be like that Jamie we both know you aren’t that clever.”

Bucky sighs, knowing she’s completely correct, “Steve.”

“Oh, Steve,” She teases. Bucky feels his fucking face flush, despite himself, and pushes his face back into his pillow. “Well c’mon now tell me about him.”

“I hate him,” Bucky groans into his pillow. His grandma sits on his bed, and he sits up so he can slump against her his head on her shoulder. “He sucks at math, and he stole my lunch table. He’s the worst.”

“You like him,” She states like it is so fucking simple.

“No, I don’t know,” Bucky grumbles. “Tony fucking Stark.”

“Who’s Tony fucking Stark?” She asks with a laugh, and Bucky curses himself for actually saying that out loud like a damn fool.

“He’s the guy I like, but it’s fucking dumb. He kissed me and I threw up and punched him in the face,” Bucky mutters.

“I don’t think that’s gonna get guys to like you back, Jamie,” She tells him.

“He’s fucking straight, and he knew I liked him so he fucking kissed him so I fucking socked him in his stupid fucking face,” Bucky gripes. “Fuck him. Ugh, Grandma I love him.”

Bucky absolutely hates himself. He absolutely hates himself. He hates the way tears are pricking at his eyes threatening to spill over. He hates the way his hands get all sweaty and itchy whenever he so much as thinks about Tony fucking Stark, and he hates the way his heart speeds up and clenches so tightly to the point he can’t fucking breathe. He absolutely hates himself.

“Oh, Jamie. Oh, honey,” His grandma coos rubbing a hand up and down his back as he cries pitifully onto her shoulder. “Don’t be wasting your time on boys like that.”

“Straight boys?” Bucky asks wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“Boys who don’t respect your feelings,” She explains. “Tony fucking Stark sounds like what you youths call a fuckboy, and if he doesn’t want his ass handed to him by a seventy year old women he better start learning to respect my grandson.”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes out shakily. “He is a fuckboy, but I really like him, Grandma.”

“And that’s okay,” She tells him softly. “But you’re a smart boy, you know that he doesn’t have to be your end. There’s plenty of other boys out there who will treat you the way you deserve.”

Bucky just sniffles, and nods his acknowledgement.

“Have you tried Grindr?” She asks.

“Grandma,” Bucky whines out a groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a soft spot for the mets sooo  
> also it was gonna be oranges but my friend and i decided that was  
> probably too Floridian and made it apples instead??


	4. there is a party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back back again  
> anywho srry if this seems a lil disjointed i wrote some on my phone writers block been kickin my ass so has school   
> unbetad as always cause trash

Today was the long awaited day. The day in which Bucky Barnes would be enacting his revenge onto Steve Rogers Table Hijacker. Bucky had to remind himself that it didn’t matter that he was becoming the antagonist in a bad teenage comedy that would inevitably end up with him getting hit by a fucking bus. However, he does suppose one has to be liked, and popular to have a drastic downfall, but then again his life was full of shit and only seemed to get worse so getting hit by a bus would probably happen to him regardless of if he acted like a petty bitch or not. So, it really didn’t matter to him if he acted like a petty bitch or not, but it certainly didn’t help that Steve Rogers Table Hijacker was morphing into the somewhat endearing Steve Sad Sack of Shit Eating Fucking Applesauce and Sucking at Math Rogers.

Underneath the shade of his tree, he could see Steve Rogers Table Hijacker sitting hunched over a sandwich, with a motherfucking Capri Sun at his lips. Who in high school still drinks motherfucking Capri Sun? No one over the age of fucking eight still drinks motherfucking Capri Sun. Yet, here he was sitting at Bucky’s fucking lunch table being all demure, and fucking shy looking and sucking on a goddamn motherfucking Capri Sun. _Pathetic._

The afternoon heat has an unsettling vibe, waves of baked wet heat hit Bucky in the face, as the sun sat in the middle of the sky just fucking beaming at him. Sweat trickled down his back leaving an uncomfortable wet spot on the back of his black t-shirt.

“You know you could just take the jacket off.”

Startled Bucky’s fist goes straight to the voice’s gut. Loki fell to his knees beside Bucky clutching his stomach with his hands, and groaning a bit breathlessly, “The fuck, Barnes?”

“You startled me,” Bucky replies in a monotone.

“That doesn’t mean you just get to punch people,” Loki gripes.

“Kinda does.”

“Not really!”

“So,” Bucky sighs. “Today.”

“Correct,” Loki gave one of this sickeningly devious grins. This kid only seemed to make Bucky feel even worse about what he was doing with his weirdly creepy grins, and the way he seemed to be getting off on the execution of the whole thing. Bucky wasn’t fully convinced the kid was doing it just to get into Stark’s party, there had to be some kind of ulterior motive in there, or he was just a dude who enjoyed implementing psychological torture on other people. Both were extremely likely.

“How is this even going to get the point across?” Bucky questions suddenly feeling nervous about the whole thing. “I’m starting to lose sight of the actual point here.”

“I’ll leave a note or something,” Loki assures him.

Bucky pushes himself up from his spot on the grass, and huffs out a breath. He had things to do, annoying things that he didn’t want to know, but things he knew would help ease the fucking guilt already gnawing at his stomach. This conscious of his was starting to cause him more and more trouble these days.

 He stuffs his hands in the pocket of his dirty jeans and drags his feet across the ground as he trudges his way into the school. He really did not have time for this, okay so maybe he did have time, but he didn’t want to do this. He wasn’t even sure why he was doing this. Steve Rogers was so stupid. Steve Rogers was a Table Hijacker. Steve Rogers did not deserve this act of kindness coming from the pure guilt Bucky was feeling for some reason.

Steve’s locker was a top row locker, which seemed completely unfair to all of those taller than Steve Rogers who had to suffer and bend down to get to their bottom row lockers. Why is it that all 5’4” of Steve Rogers who probably could only reach his books on his tip toes was blessed with a God damn top row locker? See, Bucky wouldn’t be bitter about this at all if not for the reason that last year he himself had a bottom row locker, and a world conspiring against him. He wasn’t sure how many times he could handle Scott Lang hitting him on the head with his books, and the door of his locker without going nuts. The answer was three months, then Lang slammed Bucky’s finger into the locker and Bucky forced him to switch lockers with him. Not so much forced, as glared at the guy until he offered the switch. It was real nice of him honestly.

Just like how this is real nice of him. Breaking into a locker is actually pretty easy, all you need is a paperclip. Steve’s locker was immaculate, unlike Bucky’s locker which as of the first day of school was stuffed full of stray papers, books tilted clumsily on each other, and pencils threatening to stab your hand if you aren’t paying attention. Steve’s locker has a light blue locker stand with books neatly placed side by side and a little holder magnet full of multicolored pens , and charcoal pencils hung on the inside of the door.

“This is so stupid,” Bucky mutters to himself. He takes one breath in, and then begins to tug the books out of the locker. There were a few school books, AP Government, and a Pre-Calc book that practically radiated angst. Then a few leisure books like one on World War 2 rationing which was just odd, and another about cats in art. Honestly, this Steve fellow was beginning to become one strange person, but that just made him even more endearing. Which, was a problem.

Truthfully, Bucky had no clue why he was even doing this. Why this sudden guilt completely overcame him, and was forcing him to actually help this kid. He shouldn’t be doing this, he should be cold and passive and not like _this_. _Ugh, seriously._

The rest of the day passes so fucking slowly the anticipation for art class building as each minute passes. According to Loki Steve’s locker schedule was as such: After lunch he would go to his locker between fourth and fifth period, and then after fifth before sixth period a.k.a art class. So, during Steve’s fifth period is when Loki would avenge Bucky’s table, or whatever. The more Bucky thought about it the more the whole thing was fucking stupid. He was anxious, however, to see Steve’s reaction.

Steve trudged his way into art class looking both disgruntled and confused. He plopped down next to where Bucky was already seated, and began to silently and angrily scratch his pencil across a piece of paper. There was no finesse to it. Just violently rubbing the lead against the paper, creating tears into it, before giving up and throwing the pencil across the room and all but banging his head on the table.

“Are you okay?” Bucky questions, though he’s fairly certain he knows the answer.

“Someone filled my locker with mashed potatoes,” Steve gripes.

“Oh,” Bucky says trying to feign disinterest.

“I know it was you,” Steve informs him side eyeing him bitterly. “You could have just asked to sit with me at lunch you know? I wouldn’t have said no.”

“How do you know it was me?” Bucky asks, because he honestly has no clue what the fuck that Loki kid did.

“You left a note that said, “Stop using my lunch table, Sincerely Bucky,”” Steve grumbles.

“God damn it.”

There’s a long moment of silence between the two the scent of buttery mashed potatoes coming off of Steve every time he angrily shoves a hand through his hair.

“I have your books by the way,” Bucky finally tells him.

“Oh,” Steve says sounding almost perplexed. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky smiles, just to be a shit. “I’m not giving you the _Cat in Art_ back though because I started looking at it and I’m not done yet.”

Steve smiles at that, and laughs along with Bucky. Steve’s laugh is a lot like the boy himself small and unassuming but full of force and unafraid. It’s a really nice sound, Bucky thinks. Yeah, a really fucking nice sound.

“You’ll have to let me know which one is your favorite,” Steve voices.

Then they’re back to this little routine they’ve built over the week. Bucky sitting there with his head down dozing off every now and then, and Steve making a masterpiece out of nothing but paper and charcoal. Steve draws another fucking cat, a fucking cat swimming in a bowl of mashed potatoes and Bucky thinks maybe it’s his favorite on yet.

“I’ll see you at the party tomorrow,” Steve chirps when the bell rings, excitedly almost breathlessly like his whole body is vibrating with the excitement of it. It’s both adorable and naïve to the point it makes Bucky cringe a little. He just nods back and grips his backpack strap before silently stalking out of the classroom.

Saturday afternoon Bucky rolls out of bed at eleven. Reese is moving around her enclosure hissing loudly. Bucky probably needs to feed her soon, some time. That is an important part of owning a pet. You know, feeding it. Not killing it.

There’s a knock on his door, and his mom bursts into his room.

“Mom,” Bucky snaps.

“What James, I knocked,” His mom informs him like it’s so fucking obvious.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you just get to come into my room without my authority,” Bucky gripes.

“Your authority?” His mother raises an eyebrow. “This is my house James you do not have any authority. You want authority you can pay rent.”

“This isn’t even your house,” Bucky sasses back. “This is dad’s house. You don’t even have a job.”

“Don’t get smart with me James,” His mother tells him with a tight smile. “Brush your hair, and then meet me out on the patio for brunch.”

She leaves the room like an icy chill of wind, leaving the fucking door open too. Inconsiderate. And fucking brunch? Who the fuck eats brunch? White people who pretend they’re classy and really into horses and like big hats and shit that’s who eats brunch. Bucky was not into horses or big hats, and most certainly did not eat brunch. What do you even eat at brunch? Quiche? Bucky isn’t even sure if he likes quiche. What is quiche anyways?

Bucky stumbles onto the patio, hair un-brushed. He sinks into the white wired chair across from his mother resting his cheek against the glass surface of the table. His mother looks up from the rim of her hand painted European imported teacup, dark pink lipstick staining the white of the ceramic.

“I thought I asked you to brush your hair, James?” She drones dryly.

“Mom, what’s a quiche?”

“It’s like an opened faced pastry filled with custard. Like a savory pie,” His mother explains.

“Do I like quiche?” Bucky asks.

“I do not know James,” His mother sighs.

“Do you think I do?”

“Maybe, James.”

“Have I ever had quiche?”

“I’m not sure,” His mother says.

“Have you ever had quiche?” He asks.

“Yes,” She answers, blowing the steam on her tea.

“Do you like quiche?”

“Why are you pestering me James?” His mom asks.

“You’re the one who invited me out here,” Bucky croaks in disbelief.

“Do you want quiche?”

Bucky waits a beat before answering, “Yes.”

“I’ll tell the chef we can have quiche for breakfast tomorrow,” His mother informs him, her voice always dull and businesslike.   

“Why did you invite me out here?” Bucky gripes reaching across the table to put a few oysters Rockefeller on a plate.

“To eat brunch, I don’t always have an ulterior motive you know?” She flicks her eyebrow up at him and squints her eyes. Bucky just grumbles a little shoving an oyster in his mouth letting the buttery sauce cover his tongue.

His mom goes into a rant about Stacy from next door and her awful 14th century gargoyles or something that she has outside of her house in California. According to his mother they’re incredibly tacky and Stacy is fooling herself if she believes she lives anywhere other than the Haunted Mansion is fooling herself. Then he lets his mother continue her rant to her fashion buyer Brittany.

“You know I hired a young fashion buyer because I didn’t want to look old, but Brittany doesn’t seem to understand that women over forty can dress in clothes made in this century.”

“I’ve got to go mom,” Bucky announces looking up from his phone having just gotten a text from Clint. “Thanks, uh for the quiche, you know in advance or whatever.”

“Sure, James,” His mother tells him her voice still dull, but she smiles and it’s not tight. It’s real and light, almost shy. It’s strange.

“Come home tonight,” She says smile fading as quickly as it appeared. “I don’t feel like finding out your dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Bathtub,” Bucky glares.

“What?” She asks.

“You’ll find me dead in a bathtub,” Bucky explains. “You know, because I’m a junkie and when you’re shooting up you overdose. When you overdose your so-called junkie friends put you in the bathtub, run some water over you hope for the best. You never get the best though, that never comes, because you’re dead.”

“James,” She sighs. “Goodbye.”

“Bye mom.”

Clint picked Bucky up outside the community gates with a brown paper bag between his legs.

“Hey do you think you can drive?” Clint asks Bucky with a not so innocent smile.

“No,” Bucky says getting into the passenger’s side.

“Aw, alcohol,” Clint whines clutching the bottle through the bag and giving it a handjob.

“You’re disgusting,” Bucky tries to groan, but he’s laughing nonetheless.

“You know if I just practiced driving drunk everything would be fine,” Clint nods. “Or I could practice living drunk. If I’m always drunk my motor skills will never be impaired. So, therefor driving drunk would just be normal driving if I’m always drunk. Theoretically, of course because I would never drive drunk. Except for the one time I did and ran into a tree but like too slowly to even dent the car, but it probably helps that I wasn’t in a car and was actually on a motorized razor scooter.”

“Are you okay?” Bucky questions eyeing Clint suspiciously.

“Barney’s in town,” Clint yawns. “I haven’t slept in two days. Everything smells like oranges.”

“It does smell vaguely like oranges in here,” Bucky agrees sniffing the air.

“Oh my God I can’t take this anymore!” Clint screams swerving off the road. He puts his car in park and throw his keys out the window. Bucky watches slightly horrified and slightly impressed as Clint downs half a bottle of Mark One. “This tastes like nail polish remover. Mark One!”

“I’ll call Nat,” Bucky sighs.

The three end up at Natasha’s place passing a bowl around for a few hours and attempting to microwave popcorn. After the third burnt bag they give up and settle for potato chips and spoon fulls of peanut butter. There just wasting time until the party, and watching Bojack Horseman while high is always such a trip.

By the time they get to the party it’s already in full swing and Clint is off to find more alcohol leaving Natasha and Bucky standing in the foyer sharing a cigarette. The music is making the walls vibrate and Bucky can feel his pulse quickening from the anticipation of it all. Clint comes bounding down the hallway shouting about something near indecipherable.

“What?” Bucky asks taking a drag from the cigarette and handing it back to Natasha.

"Table Hijacker is gonna fight Tony," Clint says. "He's gonna fight Tony and I swear he's not even drunk yet. I’m drunk yet. I’ve been drunk since three."

"Who's not drunk Tony or Table Hijacker?" Natasha inquiries with a knowing smirk.

"His name is Steve," Bucky sighs, but it falls on deaf ears.

"Table Hijacker duh. Cause when is Tony not drunk?"

"Touché."

"Why is Steve fighting Tony?" Bucky asks.

"Who cares why? It's totally understandable," Natasha muses.

Clint attempts to fistbump her, but misses and manages to hit the wall behind her instead and shrugs in Bucky's direction, "For a little guy he can sure raise his voice."

"His friend with him?" Natasha asks with a quirk of her finely plucked brow.

"Oh yeah," Clint whistles. "He's a good looking dude."

Natasha hums in affirmation and nods.

"Like I wouldn't mind taking a bite of that chocolate bar," Clint continues. Natasha just snorts, and Bucky tries desperately to send Clint signals that shout "shut the fuck up."

Of course Clint was oblivious to any kind of signal Bucky was trying to convey.

"Dy-no-mite."

"Okay, now you're just being racist," Natasha tells him, while Bucky groans and has to physically stop himself from facepalmimg.

"Why are you still here?" Natasha turns to Bucky and asks. "Go save Tony from getting beat up by the missing member of The Village People."

Sure enough there he was. Squared up chin, and red faced and for the first time Tony actually looks tall. Tall and foolish and getting an earful from tiny, feisty Steve Rogers as everyone crowded around them taunting them on drunkenly.

"Are you serious? Trump?" Steve asked.

Tony just laughed swaying lightly in place, taking another swig from his red plastic cup.

"What? You don't like my hat?" Tony prodded with a shit eating grin. 

"Of course I don't like your hat! Do you even know what it stands for?" Steve questioned small frame shaking despite how hard he keeps his feet planted on the ground.

"Making America great?" Bucky couldn't help but roll his eyes. Tony was playing dumb. In fact Tony was trolling Steve, deliberately being an asshole just for the sake of being an asshole. Tony fucking Stark.

"If making America great means electing a bigoted clown with absolutely no political experience whatsoever for president the yeah it'll be real great," Steve scoffs.

Tony opens his mouth, no doubt to say something snarky and offensive, but is stopped when Steve takes a big breath and continues his rant.

"He's a racist and a rapist. And where the hell are his god damn tax returns? I guess should I expect this shouldn't I? Big business supports big business right? You just want to protect the upper class and don't even care that Trump stands for everything wrong with the Republican Party. And let me just tell-"

Bucky decides this is when he decides he should jump and save Tony from this verbal slaughter.

"Hey Tony," Bucky calls with an over exaggerated dopey smile. He glides over smooshing himself against Tony's side. 

"Buckaroo! I didn't know you were gonna be here," Tony slurs wrapping an arm around Bucky's waist.

"What?" Bucky questions. "Yes you did remember?"

Tony just laughs, "Oh yeah you're right."

"Nice hat," Bucky says.

"You don't like it?" Tony asks.

Bucky just shakes his head, and folds himself into Tony so he can take the hat right off of Tony's head. He hands it to Steve with a wink and a smile.

Steve gives him a questioning smile back, before turning to a concerned Sam and walking away presumably to scout out where Natasha might be.

Tony grabs Bucky by the chin and moves his face to the side so he has a better view of the yellowing bruise on his cheek. The drunken cloudy haze seems to disappear from Tony's eyes as he stares analytically at the bruise.

"Did he do this to you?" Tony hisses.

Bucky breathes sharply through his nose, and laughs lightly, "C'mon Stark you know my dad is more of an open handed slap kinda guy."

Tony blinks at him and Bucky sighs, "Clint hit me with a baseball bat by accident."

"Typical Barton," Tony muses.

"Can we go to your room?" Bucky asks his voice shaky and hushed. Tony fucking Stark honestly fuck him who gave him the right to hold this power over Bucky. It was not fucking fair.

"I can't just abandon my party now can I?" Tony was messing with him now. This is what he did best. He fucked with Bucky's head and his heart and he got fucking joy from it too. An asshole is what he was. Yet, there was something about him that gave Bucky's stomach butterflies.

"Please Tony," Bucky practically whines.

"Alright, alright no need to cry."

Bucky wanted to scoff at that, wanted to protest indignantly, or to punch Tony in the mouth. He wanted to do something, but he knew if he so much as opened his mouth nothing but a pathetic whine would find its way out and he was not going to put up with the teasing from Tony that that would illicit. Nope. Not fucking today. So, he just scowled and followed Tony through the crowd of people until they reached Tony's room.

“I wanna get fucking stoned,” Bucky announces flopping onto Tony’s bed. “I wanna get so fucking stoned I can’t feel my face. I wanna get so stoned I can pretend that I actually understand anything that has to do with the economy.”

“Are you already stoned?” Tony laughs, finally acting more sober now that he’s alone. That’s a thing Tony does, he pretends he’s fucking juiced to the yards when in reality he’s hardly buzzed. It’s a face he puts on for the public, his adoring fans or whatever the fuck these people who are so obsessed with him are.

“I’m lightly buzzed,” Bucky tells him. “Nat gave me an edible.”

“Lollypop?”

“It was grape flavor,” Bucky says. “It didn’t taste like grape it tasted like fucking asshole. It was awful. I ate the whole thing.”  

They’re both laughing now, Tony bringing out the bong like a fucking champ. It’s a comfortable feeling, to be wrapped up in the warmth of Tony’s room. The luxurious feel of his expensive sheets on his cheek as he wallows into the bedding. The smell of them, so completely Tony that Bucky can close his eyes and just feel Tony’s presence. Hearing Tony move around the room, and just feeling so comfortable in this place. It was a feeling that Bucky had grown accustomed to over the summer, and one that he feared losing. Bucky was almost desperate for it. Desperate for this moment of quaint relaxation that no one else could give to him. Maybe this was all tied to his feelings for Tony, but he wasn’t going to admit that, too scared to lose it.

 Bucky can smell the weed, it smells strong. Smells like exactly what he fucking needs right about now. Honestly, Bucky swears that he can see angels descending from the heavens and coming down upon him to bless this fucking weed. Sure, it’s a ridiculous over exaggeration, but he’s stressed okay.

“Okay, but James Bond fucking sucks you know?” Tony says, passing the bong to Bucky. They’ve been at it like this for a while now. Passing the bong back and forth between them, having already ranted about Batman Begins, and gotten Bucky to say hello on his Snapchat story. James Bond was obviously just next in the flow of conversation. And Bucky has to wonder while all of his friends have an odd fixation with James Bond.

“Yeah?” Bucky laughs, laughs hysterically. The very thought of Tony ranting about James Bond just completely hilarious to him.

“Yeah, fucking James Bond,” Tony grumbles. “You know his drink?”

“Shaken not stirred?” Bucky manages through complete belly laughter.

“Why would he do that?” Tony gasps exasperatedly. “Why? That gets you a fucking shitty martini! Why does he want a shitty martini? When you shake a martini you get a frothy drink diluted by the ice. Okay? You have a bad textured drink. Why would he want that? Why wouldn’t he want a smooth crisp stirred martini? Oh my God.”

Tony looks close to tears, face red from frustration, and Bucky’s not far along tears of laughter pricking at his eyes. “There is so many reasons to complain about why James Bond sucks, but of course you talk about the drink,” Bucky laughs.

   “There are very few things I know about,” Tony says pointedly. “And drinking is one of them.”

There’s silence between them, nothing but the sound of a lighter and the bong. An inhale of drug, and an exhale of smoke. Bucky’s shoulders are still shaking from laughter, his face tinted pink and his head feeling hollow and heavy all at the same time. He feels a bit like he’s floating, but the pressure in the air is trying to push him towards the ground. His fingertips are tingling, and his tongue is itchy. But it’s such a good feeling. He feels fucking good.

Tony coughs once, a fake sort of cough, a cough that means he’s going to say something Bucky isn’t going to like. Bucky knows that cough. He hates that cough.

“I have a girlfriend,” Tony says. Yup, there was a valid reason for that cough. Bucky feels his heart seize up one tight spasm, before plummeting into the depths of his stomach. Whatever delusional hope he had left was completely shattered and swept away.

It takes everything he has in him to not break down like a complete fool, because really he knows he was being foolish. It was dumb, it was just so fucking dumb to hold out hope that maybe one day Tony fucking Stark would realize that hey maybe dick isn’t so bad after all. Bucky should know that isn’t how sexuality works, but he couldn’t help but hope for it.

“That-that’s really great Tony,” Bucky breathes out shakily.

“Yeah,” Tony smiles, and Bucky thinks that it’s a really great smile. He’s never seen Tony smile like that before. His heart aches. “Her name’s Pepper. She goes to Harvard.”

“I’m sure she’s great,” Bucky says, but the bitter hints of jealously cut through the words despite his best effort to contain them. He looks at his phone trying to distract himself from everything that he’s feeling, willing himself to not cry.

“I gotta go,” Bucky finally says. Tony looks up at him once, his eyes trying to offer an apology and Bucky snorts inwardly at that. Tony shouldn’t have to fucking apologize to his emotional ass for trying to find someone who makes him happy. That’s just not fucking fair.

Bucky hesitates one hand on the doorknob, “Tony, I’m really happy for you. I am.”

“Thanks,” Tony smiles softly.

As soon as Bucky leaves the room someone else bursts in exclaiming, “Tony! Some kid set your couch on fire.”

Tony just sighs flopping down on his bed, “Let it burn.”

Bucky looks down as he makes his way into the party. He swears his heart can’t decide whether it wants to shrivel up and die or swell up until it bursts. Either way he’s fucking ruined.

“Let it burn,” He mumbles. _Ain’t that fucking apt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: i turned 18 recently and my grandma asked what I wanted i told her i wanted her to take me to the club but she said no because that would be "lame"


	5. a pity party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen... i have no excuse i just didnt feel like writing for a long time  
> but enjoy now

Here was the thing, nothing fucking happened. For some reason the news that Tony fucking Stark had a girlfriend didn’t change anything. The sun still rose the next day, the world didn’t end, and nothing fucking happened. It would have been easier if it at least felt like the end of the world. Bucky could deal with that. He could deal with the cliché teen spiral into some overworked hysteria over some dumb guy. That would have been a fucking okay to Bucky, but he couldn’t even be bothered to be that dramatic. Not when the birds still chirped at his window at six in the morning, and his mom glared at his bed head when he came into the kitchen as she stirred her tea. There was a veil of calm, a Zen fog that covered Bucky.

At least that was the lie that Bucky had decided to tell himself, for the first few weeks since the girlfriend news. Of course since it was a lie, it would backfire epically as all his lies seem to do. His lie decided to blow up in his face in the middle of class when Tony fucking Stark decided to grace them with his presence. He was twenty minutes late, and every minute he kept himself away from the classroom was just a small blessing to Bucky.

Yet, here he was walking in with such an arrogant swagger Bucky has to repress an audible scoff bubbling up inside of his throat, threatening to turn into a scream. That would have been absolutely okay too. That would have been preferable to what Bucky actually did, honestly.

No, what Bucky actually does is what is extremely telling. Tony takes his seat right behind Bucky, like he always did. Leaning into Bucky’s space and whispering, “Hey.”

That’s it just ‘Hey’ nothing extreme, nothing offensive, nothing even fucking nice. With that simple word, with that dumb fucking word the scoff, the anger, the scream inside of Bucky’s throat, pounding against his fucking vocal cords or whatever dissipates. It is transformed into the sweat on his palms, the thrumming of his heart in his chest, and the blush on his cheeks. It is fucking foolish is what it is.

Things should have changed. Bucky was done with Tony fucking Stark. He was done! He was over him. He fucking swears he was over him. He was Zen as hell. A Zen motherfucker. Except he wasn’t. He wasn’t a Zen motherfucker. What he actually was, was a liar. A motherfucking liar.

“Hey, Tony,” Bucky says back, his voice faltering, almost a whisper afraid it would give too much away. He’s sure it does. He’s sure it always does. He’s sure that everyone in the entire fucking world is just humoring him, saving him from embarrassment by not telling him how much his voice gives away. He’s not entirely sure if he’s thankful for that. Feeling like everyone is laughing behind his back at him. He’s sure that Tony fucking Stark laughs about him on the phone with his fucking Harvard girlfriend. The really fucking dumb thing is that he’s not fucking sure about fucking anything. And yeah, it is fucking dumb.

“Can I see your notes?” Tony asks.

Bucky eyes his pen suspiciously, black ink because he refused to use any other pen color they were all just too pretentious, wondering how much force would be required to stab himself in the eye with it. Then he eyes his pencil, dull and no match for the metallic tip of his pen, but it could get the job done for sure.

“Sure. After class.”

“Thanks Bucky-bear you’re the best,” Tony teases with a shit eating grin. Bucky hates him.

“Suck a dick.”

“Ah, but that is your job I’m afraid.” Bucky really hates him, and the way his heart skips a beat like a damn fool every time he flashes that cocky grin.

Bucky isn’t sure how he makes it through class without having a heart attack, or a brain aneurysm, but he does. He leans against the wall and waits for Tony outside the door, in the dim lit hallway.

“Do you really need these notes? I’m sure you already know this shit,” Bucky inquires handing over his notes to Tony.

“I’m sure I do too, but it never hurts to be too prepared,” Tony informs him.

“If you wanted to be prepared you could try actually coming to class on time,” Bucky quips.

“I would but A I do not want to,” Tony begins. “And B I had a business meeting.”

“A business meeting?”

“Yeah for this business I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it it’s a small struggling local business. Stark Industries? Ring a bell? It’s extremely low key.”

“No need to be a dick about it,” Bucky huffs.

“How long do you think I can stay in college for?” Tony asks.

“What?”

“I’m supposed to take over the company when I graduate,” Tony elaborates. “Something about wanting to keep the name in the business. So, if I stay in college forever I’ll never have to take over the company.”

“You don’t have to. I mean it’s not like he’s here to stop you,” Bucky says before he can think about the words coming out of his mouth. Usually, Tony is fine being ribbed about his father’s death, not so much of his mother’s, but the way he stiffens at what Bucky says makes Bucky’s chest tighten.

“Tony,” Bucky starts. “I didn’t mean to-“

“No, no you’re right,” Tony tells him. His voice hollow, echoing in Bucky’s eardrums. “You’re right. He’s not here. He’s not here. I don’t have to graduate college, or get my PhD, or take over Stark Industries, or do any of this fucking shit that I’m fucking doing. Right? I don’t have to drink, or get high, right? He’s not here. I’ve got no one to impress. But I still fucking do it. You know why?”

Bucky swallows, a nervous lump building in his throat that he can’t get rid of. He bites at his lip afraid to answer. Eyes downcast to the floor, the dirty vinyl tile of the hallway floor suddenly the least offensive thing he could look at.

“I asked you a question,” Tony said, his voice eerily calm. “You know why? You know why I insist on ruining my life?”

He can’t answer. He can’t. It’s like all the air in his body is released upon parting his lips, and he can’t force any words out of his throat. He tilts his head downward, shaking it slowly.

“He fucking got in my head,” Tony’s voice now ranges on deranged, but keeps its calm edge. “I can’t do anything without hearing his voice in my fucking head. Tony how disappointing. Tony you can do better. Tony it’s not good enough, it’s not enough. Tony I just don’t fucking care. Can’t be good enough so stop trying. Right? That’s what I thought I was doing. But if that what I was doing then why can’t I stop trying to impress him? You don’t have to answer this time it was rhetorical, but if you feel you can answer beyond a head movement please humor me.”

“I’m sorry Tony,” Bucky tells him earnestly, but there’s a bubble of rage that pops as soon as he apologizes. “Yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to upset you, but you’re a fucking dick.”

“That’s two times today, huh?” Tony smirks, and cocks his head to the side, with a raise of an eyebrow. “You would know a thing or two about dicks though.”

“Fuck you To-“ Bucky is cut off by the sound of the chorus of AC/DC’s Love at First Feel erupting from Tony’s pocket.

“You know what hold that thought.” Tony fishes his phone out of his pocket, and answers it with a sickeningly fond, “Hey sweet face.”

God, as if it wasn’t already fucking shitty enough already Bucky has to be reminded of Tony fucking Stark’s fucking girlfriend. Fucking sweet face. Sweet face? What the fuck? Is her face made of fucking candy, fucking sweet face? Ugh, it’s dumb.

“You can keep my fucking notes,” Bucky grumbles. “Just give them back later.”

“You leaving so soon?” Tony pulls the phone away, giving Bucky and innocent look.

“Yeah,” Is all Bucky says, before walking off down the hallway. He’s pretty sure he’s walking down the wrong side of the hallway, and is actually heading towards the back exit, and even further away from the art building where he was planning to meet Natasha. However, it’s much too late for that an extra five minutes is warranted in a dramatic storm off, apparently.

“Natasha!” Bucky shouts running up to her. She’s slouched against the front of the building, red hair pulled into a tight bun and gym bag slung over her shoulder.

“Barnes,” Natasha calls back voice even and calm.

“Can we go to your place and watch dumb rom-coms?” Bucky asks.

“Rom-coms? Is this about Stark?” She teases.

“What if it is?” Bucky grumps. “But maybe I just want to watch some dumb fucking rom-coms, and like beat my fucking dick to Heath Ledger or whatever.”

 “You beat your dick to Heath Ledger?” Natasha smirks. “Those combat boots really do it for you?”

“So, we’re on for this?”

“I’m not sure you want to do it at my place,” Natasha tells him. She begins to walk to her car, hips swinging slightly. Bucky trails behind her dragging his feet, and letting out an exaggerated groan.

“Don’t give me that,” Natasha tuts. “Having a pity party at Clint’s would be much more fun.”

“I don’t wanna,” Bucky whines. “His roommate is weird.”

“Phil?”

“Yeah, Phil. He’s weird.”

“How is he weird?”

“He’s old.”

“He’s weird because he’s old?”

“No, he’s weird because I’m pretty sure he’s like an FBI agent or something” Bucky mumbles.

 

“Why does that make him weird?”

“Because he’s living with Clint. What stable adult would live with a guy who’s fucked a Hot Pocket before?”

“Clint’s fucked a Hot Pocket?” Natasha pulls her keys from her sports bra, and unlocks the door to her car.

Bucky pulls on the handle to the car door, only to find it locked. “Unlock the door.”

“Give me a second.”

He pulls on it again, right as Natasha unlocks it only for it to stay locked. Bucky just groans and pulls on the handle frantically.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Natasha asks, with a questioning look.

“The door is locked.” Yes, Bucky realizes how insufferably whiny his voice is, but today has not been his day, and he wants to fucking whine about. He has earned the right to be a bitch. This is his right. Natasha just rolls her eyes, and lets out an annoyed sigh. Finally, the door unlocks and Bucky settles himself in the car slouching in the passenger seat.

“I’m gonna hang myself with the seatbelt,” Bucky grumbles.

“Kinky,” Natasha muses.

Bucky just slams his head against the head rest and groans. “Whenever we get Chinese food Phil always just orders a small white rice. Who the fuck does that?”

“That is weird,” Natasha agrees with a small nod. “Speaking of Chinese. Text Clint and tell him we’re throwing you a pity party and he’s in charge of bringing the food.”

 Bucky grumbles nonsensically, typing out the message to Clint.

 pty prty 4 me @ nats brng food

Clint replied with about ten thumbs up emojis, and another message right after that saying:

urine luck stole a popcorn machine

“Clint stole a popcorn machine,” Bucky reads aloud to Natasha.

Natasha just snorts, “Did he steal it, or is he just saying that to seem cool? My bet is that he found it.”

“I’ll ask.”

u stle? r fnd?

…

…found

“He found it,” Bucky tells Natasha, earning an eye roll from the red head.

whr?

behind the bowling alley

y wre u thr ?

i wanted a bowling pin found popcorn machine instead

Natasha pulled into the parking lot of her shabby apartment complex. There were about twelve cats that just roamed the parking lot. As soon as you stepped out of the car, or your house you faced the risk of a cat sinking their claws into your leg trying to scale up your legs. Natasha has given them all names, and she feeds them oatmeal. She was like the empress of the cats. They would follow her to the ends of the earth in hopes of getting a paper plate full of soggy watered down oatmeal, and the mangy fur balls were not afraid to voice their need.

“What do you think they’re saying?” Bucky asked pawing at one grey kitten clawing its way up his denim pants.

“Feed me you bitch,” Natasha answers in a squeaky voice.

Natasha pointed to a bright orange chubby cat that was laying on its back, tail flicking lazily back and forth. “That one is my favorite.”

“Why? Cause he looks like you?” Bucky teases.

“You calling me fat and orange Barnes?” Natasha questions with a vaguely threatening tone. She flips her key chain around flicking her pocket knife open, and pointing it at him. “I would deeply reconsider that statement.”

 “Did you just pull a knife on me?” Bucky chuckles putting his hands up in defeat. “I guess since I’m not in the business of getting stabbed in a dirty apartment parking lot I’ll retract the statement you are a beautiful slim and non-orange woman.”

Bucky considers this for a moment before adding, “How disappointed do you think my mom would be if I got shanked in a parking lot?”

“It’s not getting shanked if it isn’t a homemade knife. It’s just getting stabbed. You aren’t street Barnes,” Natasha smirks at him. She squats down to pet the orange cat earning a purr from the fat cat. “Good Snookie.”

“The cat’s name is Snookie?” Bucky laughs. “Fitting.”

“I know,” Natasha says, giving him a deadly grin. She unlocks the door to her house, having to shoo several cats away with her heels as they tried to push their way inside. The cats meowed loudly like feline thunder. “Shut up oh my God.”

“Nat, you brought this upon yourself,” Bucky tells her.

“Get bent, Barnes,” Natasha snaps. “There are bigger knives inside.”

“You’re awful stabby today,” Bucky chuckles.

“I’m against gun violence.”

Bucky shuffled into Natasha’s apartment heading into the kitchen to raid the fridge while Natasha moved into the living room to get the TV and DVD player ready.

“You better have fucking beer,” Bucky mutters. He was about to continue with his bitch ass complaints when he hit his shins on a fucking couch. A fucking couch in a fucking kitchen. Who the fuck?

“Why is there a fucking couch in your kitchen?” Bucky askes.

“The guy next door died he left it to me in his will,” Natasha informs him offhandedly. “And it’s not a fucking couch, it’s a sitting couch. I’m starting a new trend. A kitchen couch trend. You sit on the couch in the kitchen sipping wine and shit. It’s classy.”

“Have you looked inside it?” Bucky inquires eyes scanning over the dusty pink upholstery.

“Yeah,” Natasha grumps. “No money, no drugs.”

“What the fuck? Then why the fuck would he leave you his couch?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think he died on this couch?” Bucky eyed one rather questionable stain that blemished one of the couch cushions.

“No, I’m pretty sure he died in the shower. Get me a beer by the way,” Natasha shouts at him.

Bucky makes his way into the living room two bottles of lukewarm beer in his hand. “Dying in the shower would suck you’d be all naked and shit.”

“On the bright side you wouldn’t have pissed your pants,” Natasha says.

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” Bucky agrees. “So, what are we watching? _The Notebook_? I could use a good cry.”

“ _The Notebook_ makes you cry?” Natasha questions with a teasing quirk of a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky answers shamelessly. “It makes all of us non-robots cry.”

“We’re watching _The Astro-Zombies_ ,” Natasha informs him.

Bucky just groans, because he knows better. He really should have seen this coming. Natasha has the worst taste in movies of any single person he has ever met. At first, it was okay. It really was. Bucky could deal with eight hours of Mel Brooks’ movies. That was a-okay, but sometimes she just picked some completely questionable movies _. Vampyros Lesbos_? An actual film. An actual film that Natasha owns, and has watched _willingly_ multiple times. No closed captioning.

“What? _Werewolf on Wheels_ was sold out at the Blockbuster?” Bucky quips.

“I have _Werewolf on Wheels_ if you’d rather watch that,” Natasha grins devilishly.

“If you want to be weird we can just watch _Earth Girls are Easy_ ,” Bucky grumbles.

Natasha just sighs, and continues trying to untangle the never ending bundled wad of cords. So many cords, so many fucking cords. You can spend your entire life untangling these cords only to find out it was a wasted frivolous task, because as soon as you reach the end you realize right where you started is tangled up again.

“Natasha,” Bucky gasps. He yanks the cords from her hands and holds it in front of his face. Awe-inspired. “Cords are just like life. You try to untangle it all, and then as soon as you’re done you realize that you have to start all over.”

“Are you okay?” Natasha questions, squinting her eyes and gently taking the cords from his hands.

“No,” Bucky snaps. “I want to watch fucking _10 Things I Hate About You_ , or fucking _Splash_.”

“Barnes, last time I let you pick the movie you picked _The Fly_ , and the time before that you picked _The Fly_ and the time before that you picked _The Fly_ and-“

“Natasha shut up! It’s the 1986 version. Jeff Goldblum!”

“Yelling Jeff Goldblum’s name doesn’t add validity to your argument,” Natasha retorts.

Bucky directs a glare towards her, and takes a long breath. She knows what is coming she should have expected it at this point honestly.

“Don’t you dare, Barnes,” She threatens. Bucky’s surprised she hasn’t pulled another knife on him yet. Yet. There is still time.

Imminent stab wound, or not Bucky was going to do this, and shouting Jeff Goldblum’s name over and over again to the point where Natasha is cursing him just as loudly in Russian is worth the stab wound. Honestly it is. Their operatic shouting match was interrupted by a loud banging at the front door.

“Let me in the fucking door,” Clint yells through the other side of the door. Natasha gives one more pointed glare at Bucky before turning to get the door for Clint.

Clint walks in the door embracing Natasha in a hug, “I’ve been telling ya to fix your lock for ages.”

“What’s wrong with my lock?” Natasha asks, an amused grin lifting her lips.

“It locks, and I can’t get in,” Clint explains as he makes his way through the house. “Why is there a couch in the kitchen?”

“Wine couch,” Natasha tells him.

“Ah, yes wine couch. Hey, Buck.”

“Clint, I hate Natasha,” Bucky groans.

“Are we watching _Blood Orgy of the She-Devils_?”

“ _Astro-Zombies_ ,” Bucky and Natasha answer at the same time. Natasha obviously too pleased with herself.

"So, how are you?" Clint asks, almost hesitantly.

Bucky flops face down on the couch groaning into a pillow.

"I'm gonna smother myself. Why can't you guys have problems?"

"I have problems," Clint assures with a short guffaw. "I can't afford both the good weed and gas. You know I don't smoke that synthetic shit."

"That's not a real problem," Bucky whines.

"It's your party Barnes," Natasha snorts. "You can cry if you want to."

"Why don't you have any problems?" Bucky asks Natasha, his eyebrows furrowed grumpily.

This just earns him a scoff and an eye roll.

"I have problems. I'm too short, too curvy, and it doesn't matter how clean my lines are they're never clean enough, and no matter how hard I practice it's not good enough. Because I'll never naturally look the part."

There's a stunned beat of silence. Clint letting out a high pitched overwhelmed huff of air.

"Also I texted Sam thirty minutes ago and he never texted me back."

Bucky lifts his head up at the omission. "You're texting Birdguy?"

"Trying to, at least."

Bucky checks the time on his phone noticing it was only 4:12. "He gets done with his running activity or whatever they call it at 4:30. So, he's not ignoring you."

“That’s a relief,” Natasha admits, pouting down at her phone.

“Invite him over,” Bucky tells her. “But only if he’ll bring Mcnuggets.”

“Mm Mcnuggets,” Clint sighs, draping his body across Bucky’s.

Sam arrives when the trio is forty minutes into The Astro-Zombies and baked as hell. The knock seems to echo in Bucky’s ears. Clint was sitting in Natasha’s lap thighs splayed.

“Buck Buck answer the door,” Natasha orders with a lazy lift of a finger.

Bucky pulls the door open with all the dramatic flair he can in his weed addled high, “Birdguy! You bring the Mcnuggets?”

“I’m sorry do I know you?” Sam asks, with a smugly placed smirk.

“Fuck you this is my fucking party,” Bucky huffs.

“Bucky?” That voice was decidedly not Sam.

“Steve?” Bucky parrots. “What are you doing here?”

“Is it your birthday?” Steve asks at the same time.

“It’s not my fucking birthday,” Bucky snaps. “I’m in mourning.”

Steve’s eyes widen in surprise, and he opens his mouth posed to ask a question before being pushed out of the way by Sam.

“Let me in.” Sam pushes past Bucky and makes his way into the house. He leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “Natasha, how you doin’?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow at Sam’s posturing.

“Uh? I mean how are you doing today?” Sam tries.

Natasha just snorts, and pushes Clint off her lap. She lets Clint land on the floor with a thump. With a demure, but strong hand she pats her now empty lamp.

“Oh,” Sam smirks. “You think you can handle all of this?”

“You bring the Mcnuggets?” Clint asks, as Sam settles himself on Natasha’s lap.

“Yes, I brought the fucking Mcnuggets,” Sam groans.

“They’re right here,” Steve pipes up, clutching the paper bag.

Clint snatches the McDonald’s bag from Steve without even having to move from his place on the floor, and fishes out a container of Mcnuggets, and promptly shoving five into his mouth.

“You should slow down you don’t want to choke,” Steve advises cautiously.

Natasha just snorts, and kicks Clint’s side with her toe. “Choke bitch.”

“Did you guys hotbox this whole place? Damn,” Sam exasperates with a cough.

Clint chuckles, and holds the bowl out to Sam, “You want some?”

“I don’t smoke,” Sam says.

“Right on man,” Clint nods.                                  

“Oh,” Steve says. “You guys are smoking in here?”

“Uh, yeah is that a problem?” Clint asks.

“No, I just,” Steve blushes and looks down at his feet. “Asthma. And I’m allergic.”

“You’re allergic?” Bucky asks with a chuckle. “To weed?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “It’s just like a pollen allergy.”

Clint and Bucky both huff out a small laugh that eventually erupts into full blown laughter. Sam joins in with the laughter and adds, “Once, he tried to smoke a blunt and I swear he coughed until he turned blue. And he cried.”

“It’s not that funny,” Steve harrumphs. “And I wasn’t crying. My eyes were watering because I’m allergic.”

“Your eyes are looking a little red now,” Natasha observes. “Bucky take him to the kitchen.”

Bucky squints at Natasha, who just winks at him.

“Why’d you wink?” Bucky asks.

“I didn’t wink.” She winks again.

“Don’t fucking wink at me,” Bucky snarls, but without any real venom.

“Take Steve to the couch in the kitchen,” Natasha shoos him away, with another wink.

“Why is there a couch in the kitchen?” Steve asks, sounding rather congested.

“For wine drinking,” Bucky informs Steve, ushering him towards the kitchen.

Steve settles himself down on the couch in the kitchen, tucking his legs underneath him, and leaning against the side. Bucky places himself on the opposite end of the couch making himself as small as he can. The couch is small, not leaving a lot of space between the two, but Bucky will be damned if he doesn't make sure there is a significant amount of space between their thighs.

"Sam and Natasha look like they're getting along," Steve observes. "I really hope everything works out for them. Sam is so gone on her. I can tell if he's thinking about her just by the gleam in his eyes. It's so cute."

"You're smiling," Bucky points out. And Steve was. He was smiling like an utter loon, or he was until Bucky pointed it out.

Steve just blinks owlishly at Bucky, "What?"

"Sorry, uh, it's just that you were uh smiling," Bucky fumbles feeling his face grow hot from embarrassment. "It's just you were smiling so big, like it was the greatest thing in the world. And I don't know. It's just nice that Birdguy has someone who loves him like you do. I guess. I don't know. I'm stupid."

"Yeah you are pretty dumb," Steve teases. "I just want Sam to be happy he's the best guy I've ever known. He deserves it. To fall in love."

"God bless him if he thinks he can fall in love with Nat," Bucky snorts.

“Why do you say that?” Steve asks.

“She once told me that love was for children.”

“Maybe Sam makes her feel young again,” Steve tells him with a starry eyed glint in his eyes.

“She’s not a fifty year old woman, Steve,” Bucky laughs.

“Shove it,” Steve blushes. “It’s cute, romantic. Don’t you want someone who makes you feel like that? Light and heavy all at the same time. I do.”

“What about when it doesn’t work out?” Bucky questions. “Think you’ll regret it then?”

“Yes,” Steve answers without a moment of hesitation. “But you get back up. You find someone else. You find someone who makes you feel like that again, and you try to treasure it while you have it.”

Bucky looks at Steve with some kind of bewildered expression of wonderment. The guy sounded absolutely fucking nuts. Bucky was in between amused hilarity, and stunned awe. He just shakes his head slowly, hair falling in front of his eyes.

“You’re crazy kid,” Bucky chuckles.

Steve scrunched up his nose, and looks at his hands. “Maybe. But I just want that. Someday. I guess that’s naïve of me.”

Bucky can’t tear his gaze from Steve. He just looks so fucking earnest, and perhaps a bit sad. There’s just so many emotions in him, he’s supposed to be fucking mourning. This was his fucking pity party. As all things in Bucky’s life seem to pan out, he doesn’t get what he wants.

Instead he just smiles, a bit deranged and says, “I bet you wish you could get high now, huh?”

Steve just laughs at that, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my mom put a couch in our kitchen not for wine drinking tho cause alcohol is the devils juice  
> also i too am allergic to tht good cannabis
> 
> also follow me on tumblr so u can trash me [ here](http://trashbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> uhm hope u like this shit??  
> I don't understand teenagers so???srry if this is not an accurate depiction of your   
> teenage life (but a lot is drawn from mine so)  
> also s/o to you if u caught my reference to skins in there


End file.
